


Gully Washer

by mcfair_58



Category: Bonanza
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 17:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 38,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7397413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcfair_58/pseuds/mcfair_58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a storm approaching, Little Joe heads out to find the prize foal his father is so fond of and is caught in a flash flood. While his brothers deal with their own fears, Ben Cartwright fights a battle to overcome despair and grief and face the very real fear that Joe may never be found.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

Chapter One

Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days  
Shakespeare, Sonnet 70

“You sure you oughta head out, little brother?” 

Hoss Cartwright lifted his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair, wiping the sweat away. The weather had taken an unusual turn in the last day, growing hot and humid. He cast an envious glance at Little Joe who sat his horse like a prince, the wind blowing through the unruly and overly ample mass of multi-toned brown curls that was his hair.

“It just ain’t fair,” he muttered, shaking his head. 

“What ain’t fair?” Joe echoed, looking down at him.

“Why, eh,” Hoss sputtered, “sending a man out when there’s a storm brewing.”

Joe was leaning on his saddle horn. He looked up at the sky and then back at him. “Are you plumb out of your head, brother? We’ve been in drought for six weeks. Besides, the sun’s shining, the cows aren’t lying down, and I haven’t heard any ruckus from the chicken coop. You figuring you’re smarter than nature?”

“Dag burn it, Joe! I ain’t no superstitious woman from the mountains. This is plain hard fact I’m talkin’ about. The sky was red this morning, and lookee there.” Hoss pointed to a pair of squirrels frantically working to take the cone of a White Pine to their hole high up in one of the trees that fronted the Ponderosa house. “They ain’t nuts. They’re packin’ it in for the long haul.” 

“They ain’t nuts, but I sure know someone who is,” Joe replied with a tight smile. He shifted in his saddle. “The next thing I know, you’ll be telling me you were serenading the bull frogs so you could see if their skin’s gone black. Hey, you want I should fetch that crazy old French woman who lives by the Gulch back so she can read your palm and see if you’re right?”

Hoss felt his temper rise. If there was one thing his little brother was good at besides getting into trouble, it was getting under his skin. “You ain’t too big to turn over my knee!” he growled.

“Gotta catch me first!” Joe laughed as he pointed Cochise’s nose toward the gate.

“Joe! At least wait until Pa gets back. He should be here any minute.”

“You try telling Pa you can’t go out and find his missing foal because the squirrels are hungry, and see how far that gets you.” Joe put spurs to skin and began to urge his Paint forward. “I’m gonna find me a horse. Tell Hop Sing I’ll be back in time for supper.”

“You better be back afore then, Little Joe! You mind my word. There’s a gully washer brewin’ in the northwest,” he shouted as his little brother rode away. “Dag blamed sure-of-himself cocky-as-a-stallion-in-a-brood-of-mares youngin’,” Hoss breathed with a sigh after Joe disappeared. He removed his hat again and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. As he replaced it, the big man looked at the sky, remembering the red hue at dawn. There had been a ring around the moon the night before too – both as sure a sign as a man could have of a hellatious storm coming. 

Hoss hesitated a moment and then moved toward his horse. As he did, his elder brother Adam stepped out of the house, book in hand. “You heading out?” Adam said as he approached.

He had one foot in the stirrup. He removed it and turned to face his brother. “Yep.”

Adam’s eyes went to the railing, noting the empty spot beside his own mount. “Little Joe gone?”

“He went looking for that foolhardy foal that broke loose last night. He says she’s something special to Pa.”

“Ah, I see. Well, he’s right about that. That foal comes of two of the finest horses we have.” Adam smiled. “Are you thinking of running our little brother to ground?”

Hoss scowled. “What? You think I’m goin’ after that dad-blamed idiot?”

His brother shrugged. “The thought crossed my mind.”

“Well, uncross it!” Hoss mounted his horse and edged it away from the rail. “He can just fend for hisself. I’m headed for the creek.”

Adam laughed. “Whatever for? You looking for that foal as well?”

The big man hesitated. “Well, no, not rightly.”

“Then what are you looking for?”

Hoss glanced at the sky. He was probably imagining it, but it seemed the clouds had thickened in the last few minutes over the land north and west.   
Turning back to his brother, he replied, “Bull frogs.”

 

Little Joe reined in his horse and drew to a halt on the top of a ridge. He removed his black hat and hung it on the saddle horn and then reached for the canteen that dangled from his saddle. Cupping his hand he filled it with water, which he then splashed in his face. Watery missiles flew from his tousled hair as he shook it, removing the extra water. If his French was to be pardoned, it was dry as the Devil’s privates.

Joe laughed. And he was French.

Recapping the canteen, he returned it to the saddle hook and then replaced his hat, pulling it forward to shield his eyes. The land was blistered. The last rain they’d had had come a few weeks back. It was puny and had done nothing to wet the whistle of the land. He snickered again as he urged his horse forward toward Gray Gulch. It was a dry run where many a stray steer had been found floundering in dust. Even if every chicken started clucking in the pen and every bull frog on the Ponderosa turned black, there was sure as shooting no storm coming. His big brother Hoss was a funny one – big as a mountain and twice as strong, sure of himself as the day and not afraid of anything, and yet always worrying – and mostly about him!

The taut man in the saddle snorted.

Why, he’d pulled Hoss’s considerable bacon out of the fire more times than he could remember. And Adam’s too. After all, how many times had they had to rescue him? Really?

Cochise blew the breath out of his nostrils and whinnied, drawing Joe’s attention. 

He cuffed the Paint’s neck gently. “Hey! No one asked you!”

Still laughing, Joe continued on. 

 

“You’re brother went out looking for the foal?”

Hoss nodded.

“And you think there’s something wrong with that?” Ben Cartwright demanded.

The big man glanced at his older brother Adam who flanked him and stifled a sigh. You could always tell when their Pa was riled. He never made a statement, just asked questions. He’d done the same thing when they were little. 

Maybe that was the point.

“Well, Pa, I know you want that foal, but –”

“But what? You think Little Joe isn’t capable of riding out to find it?”

“No, Pa, it ain’t that.”

“Then what is it?”

Hoss screwed his face up, twisting his thin lips to one side and letting his concern hang there for a moment. “Pa, I gotta show you somethin’.”

“Show me?”

Adam, who was standing beside his brother, said, “Oh, this should be good.”

“You shut up, Adam!” Hoss ordered.

Adam waved the book he was holding in a gesture to say, ‘Have it your way’, and then stepped back.

Hoss reached for a box he had tied to his saddle. Loosening the strings he removed it and came to face his pa. 

“It’s not my birthday,” Ben Cartwright said, pokerfaced.

“It ain’t a present, Pa.”

“Well then, what is it?”

“It’s a bull frog,” Adam said, spoiling the surprise.

“Doggone it, Adam. I was going to tell him.”

His brother’s hazel gaze turned his way. “When – next year?”

Ben was blinking. “A bull frog? You went out to round up a bull frog?”

“It’s not as dangerous as a foal, Pa,” Adam deadpanned. 

“And you keep quiet!” their pa snapped. “Hoss. Explain yourself.”

Hoss opened the box and drew out the frog. He held it out to his father. “Here. See?”

Ben blinked. “See what?”

“The frog, Pa. It’s black.”

“Yes....”

“Don’t you see?” he asked again, thrusting it under his father’s nose. “It’s black!”

“I see that it’s black. Does that have some particular meaning?”

“Pa!” the big man exclaimed. “You mean you don’t know?”

The silver-haired man shook his head. He turned to Adam with a sigh, the bluster frustrated out of him. “Do you have any idea what your brother is going on about?”

Adam crossed his arms, book still in hand. “According to the latest scientific journals, Pa – which, of course, Hoss is known to peruse by the hour – the color of a bull frog’s skin is an indicator of approaching weather.” When their father continued to look puzzled, Adam added, “Black means bad.”

“Hoss, really!” his pa said, swinging to look at him. “The next thing you’ll be telling me is that a storm is coming because the cows are lying down.”

Hoss’s interest ratcheted up. “Are they Pa?”

“Good God! What am I rearing? Ignorant peasants?”

“Pa, you know it’s true!”

Ben Cartwright drew a breath and held it. He tried his best, but it came out in a sigh. “Yes, I will admit that there is some validity to the beliefs held by the under and uneducated. They are based on observation and repetition, such as ‘red sky at morning, sailor take warning’. As there are more clouds due to an approaching storm, the sun’s light strikes them and sometimes turns them red. But the color of a bull frog’s skin? Really, Hoss, I expected more from you.”

Hoss hung his head. “Sorry, Pa. I’m just worried about Little Joe.”

His father stepped forward to place a hand on his shoulder. “There’s nothing wrong with that. As we all know,” he glanced at Adam, “Little Joe draws trouble as sure as Hop Sing’s fine cooking draw flies. If it will make you feel any better, then you go after him. I’m sure Joe can use some help with that foal. She’s a wild one.”

“And unpredictable as he is,” Adam added with a sly smile.

“Thanks, Pa, I think I will. He was headed to Gray Gulch.”

“Gray Gulch. That’s west, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, Pa.” He forgot sometimes him and his brothers had pet names for places their pa didn’t know. “You know, near that crazy old woman’s house.”

“Hoss, is that any way to speak of a lady?”

He shook his head. “She ain’t no lady, Pa. When I was a kid, I thought she was a witch. Now I know she’s just plain loco.”

“And mean,” Adam agreed.

“Don’t feed your younger brother’s wrong beliefs, Adam. On top of the fact that there is no such thing as a witch, Antoinette Manning is a poor woman who has seen too much loss. She became distracted due to being female and having to face more than she could take. Her mind has...well, shut down in many ways.”

“Well, her meaness ain’t,” Hoss countered. “Nettie Manning plumb near killed Little Joe and me for trespassing on her property.”

“And when was this?”

Hoss shrugged. “Joe was little. Maybe five or so.”

“And you, as his older brother, took him trespassing? As a lark, I suppose?”

“Weren’t nothin’ like that, Pa. We needed water. We stopped to ask her. She chased us off with a rifle.”

“Hoss isn’t being exactly honest about one thing,” Adam said quietly.

“Don’t you go spreadin’ no tales, big brother,” Hoss warned.

“Yes?” their pa asked.

“Nettie was all right with Joe being there. It was this big galoot she took a dislike too. She tried to chase him off – without Joe.”

“And you boys never told me?”

Hoss and Adam exchanged glances. “Sorry, Pa.”

Ben Cartwright’s skin was normally tanned. At this moment it was red as a chestnut’s coat. 

“What else haven’t you told me?”

 

He’d found her.

Of course, she wasn’t going to come easy. 

Joe had tethered Cochise on a bit of high ground about a quarter mile back and followed the filly on foot into the area of Gray Gulch. She was skittish as a girl at her first dance and just about as good at hiding from her pursuer. He paused on the top of a small rise to look for a sign of her. While he was there, he propped his rifle against his legs and took a moment to fasten his coat and pull the collar up about his neck. The wind had picked up. It rustled through his hair, casting stray curls into his eyes. Joe laughed as he shoved the disorderly mass back and pinned it with his hat. 

It wasn’t any use. It would be back in a second. 

Casting a glance at the sky, he noticed that a number of puffy fair-weather clouds had moved in. They were being driven by the wind like a herd of sheep and riding low on the horizon.

Maybe Hoss’s bull frogs had it right after all.

Picking up his rifle, Joe sprinted forward following the foal’s tracks. She’d been moving at a good clip for some time, but had slowed since giving him the slip. He hoped she was just tired and not hurt. The foal’s sire was one of their finest and it would be a shame to have to put her down. She’d make a superior horse for them or fetch a good price one day.

Depending on whether or not she was ever tamed.

Beauty was an eleven month old foal, just next to being a yearling. She was all black with two exceptions – a patch on her rump that was white as snow and a star of the same color on the left side of her nose. Joe looked up again. The sky to the north was darkening. If the clouds came this way and it grew too dark, he would have to give up the hunt. 

She’d be mighty hard to see. 

As he approached Gray Gulch Joe stopped to take another drink of water. The sight of the ditch brought a smile to his lips. He could still see himself and Hoss scurrying into it and clawing their way to the top on the opposite side, all the while old Missus Manning was shooting off her rifle and screaming at the top of her lungs. It wasn’t really a gulch. Gray Gulch was more of a deep gully. It had just looked like a gulch to two little inexperienced boys. The sides were near eight feet high and fairly steeply sloped. Dry, the climb out wasn’t bad. Wet, it was next to impossible. There were a few people living near it, mostly ranch hands his pa had helped get a start. Nettie Manning was the widow of one of them. Indians had wiped out her whole family before he had been born. It was no wonder the poor woman was crazy. A while back the townsfolk had tried to drive her out of the area and his pa had intervened. Joe glanced up again. If the sky wasn’t turning dark, he would have paid Nettie a visit and seen if she needed anything.

She had to be lonely.

As he capped his canteen, Joe heard a noise. It sounded like the filly snorting. Taking off again he moved forward, keeping an eye out for her.

Unfortunately, when he found Beauty, it was at the bottom of Gray Gulch.

 

It was late afternoon and the day was nearly done. Adam Cartwright had just returned from working on the range. He dismounted and then glanced at the sky. Damn it! If Hoss and his superstitions hadn’t been right! There was definitely a storm in the making and it was setting up to be a bad one. Coupled with the flock of clouds that looked like sheep that had come early in the day, there were surging towers to the north now, growing ever higher as he watched. The wind was from the northwest and it was strong. Taking his horse by the reins, Adam opened the stable door and went inside. As he placed Sport in his stall, he noticed with a twinge of dread that while Hoss’s horse was there, Little Joe’s was not. 

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Adam heard the stable door open. The action was followed by a deep sigh.

“You ain’t Little Joe.”

“No. Neither are you.” Adam finished and crossed to his brother. “You didn’t find him, I take it.”

Hoss shook his head. “I never made it. I ran across Jim Phillips. His wagon had throwed a wheel. Took a couple of hours to fix it.” The big man looked toward the open door and the darkening sky beyond. “Sure was hopin’ Little Joe would be back.”

“About that, Hoss. It looks like Pa and I were wrong. Apparently your bull frogs knew what they were talking about.”

Hoss dismissed it with a gesture. “Wouldn’t have made no difference. You know Joe. Nothing we said would have stopped him.”

Adam laughed and headed for the stable door. “He’s definitely all of the trouble you and I ever were rolled into one.”

Hoss remained silent a moment. “I sure hope he’s okay.”

The black-haired man halted as he stepped out of the stable. He had felt a drop of rain. “I hope Joe isn’t anywhere near that gully. Gray Gulch has been dry as bone for decades, but you never know.” His eyes went to the northwest. “It all depends on how fast the rain falls and what direction the storm takes.”

“Joe ain’t stupid enough to be in a gully during a washer.”

Adam eyed the sky again. “No, I suppose not.” He clapped Hoss on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go inside or it will be us who’s left out in the rain – by Hop Sing!”

 

Beauty sure was a feisty one. With an eye to the sky Joe tracked the foal north along Gray Gulch. As the sun neared the horizon, the high-walled ditch had filled with shadows, making it harder to see her tracks and nearly impossible to see the black horse itself. He had to watch for the flash of her white rump and it had been some time since he had seen that. Joe was a little nervous and knew that walking the gully was not the smartest thing he could do. He should give up and go home – would have if the foal had not meant so much to his pa. Still, the steep slopes were dry. Though he could hear rain approaching – it was pounding the trees to the north right now – the bulk of the storm was still some distance off. Besides, Gray Gulch had remained dry through every rainstorm he had ever seen. There was no reason to believe this one would be any different.

Worse came to worse – wet or dry – he could scramble up its sides in a few seconds.

As he paused to catch his breath, Joe heard the foal whinny. The sound was close. She couldn’t be more than ten yards in front of him. Clutching the rope he had brought to use to rein her in, Joe pressed on, moving quickly, intent on his mission. So intent, in fact, that he misjudged the distance. 

Beauty was not ten yards in front of him but ten feet. 

The foal reared up in fright and a pair of powerful hooves struck out from the darkness. One took Joe in the upper arm and drove him back against the earthen wall. As he dropped to the ground, winded, he curled into a tight ball, giving the frightened foal less area to strike. It did him little good. Her hoof hit his left leg near his hip. Pain shot through him and he lost consciousness for maybe a minute. When he came to, Beauty was staring down at him, looking something like a little kid who hadn’t realized the stick would hurt.

“Easy, girl,” Joe cooed as he shifted. 

She shied the moment he did.

“You and I need to get out of this ditch, Beauty. That storm’s coming fast,” he said as he braced his back on the side wall and worked his way up it. Once on his feet, he took a tentative step. The pain was bad, but not incapacitating. “Come on, girl,” he added, reaching for her.

It was then he heard it – a dull roar like the hooves of a thousand steer thundering fast across the plain. Joe turned away from the foal and faced into the darkness. Light raindrops were just starting to strike him, but he knew the rain didn’t have to fall where he was in order for the gulch to flood. It could be raining hard twenty miles away and, if the conditions were right, the water would fill the gully and overrun it, creating a roiling mass of water and bracken that would move down it faster than any galloping horse. The ranch hands had told him all of his life that it would take a hundred year flood to wet this one. 

Joe swallowed over the lump in his throat. He wondered just how many years it had been since Gray Gulch had seen that kind of water. 

Casting a last longing look at the nearly invisible foal, Joe decided to save his own life and leave her to her fate. Scrambling on all fours he began to work his way up the side of the gully. His injured leg and arm slowed him down, but didn’t stop him. Fear was a powerful antidote to pain. As the horse snorted nervously, sensing what was coming, Joe caught hold of some of the long grass at the top and began to haul himself up and out of the gully. 

It should have worked – would have worked if not for the fact that the falling mist had made the grass more slippery than he expected. 

Within seconds Joe found himself once again at the bottom of Gray Gulch. 

 

Supper had ended and Ben Cartwright was standing by the west window looking out, waiting for his son. With each minute that passed he grew more uneasy. Joe was no longer a child, though his temperament and lightning-fast temper often made him seem like one. He had ordered Adam and Hoss to leave him be. It wouldn’t do to have his older brothers nursemaid the boy every moment of the day. 

Still, it was getting mighty late.

Ben turned and looked back at the table. He had set the limit of his own patience at the end of their supper meal. Hop Sing had just cleared the table. Adam was leaning on the stone wall beside the fireplace staring at the fire, while his brother Hoss paced from one end of the room to the other. Hop Sing had complained about how little his middle boy had eaten. Hoss was worried about his brother.

So was he.

“Boys....” he began as he walked toward them.

“I’ll saddle up Buck and Chubb,” Hoss said, heading for the door.

Adam followed hard on his heels. “I’ll get Sport.” 

“Boys, boys,” Ben said, halting them in their progress. “I want you to understand that this doesn’t mean I don’t trust your brother to look out for himself.”

“Pa,” his middle son said, “I don’t know about you but I been worrying about Little Joe so long I don’t know as I can do anything else. That boy draws trouble like a magnet.”

“I’m sure Joe’s all right,” Ben replied, convincing himself. “He’s probably holed up somewhere to wait out the storm.”

“We’ll head for Gray Gulch. He mentioned going there,” Adam said. His eldest paused and then added, “You better stay here, Pa, in case Joe comes back.” 

“What are you trying to say, Adam?” Ben heard the temper in his tone. “That I’m too old to ride out in a rainstorm?”

“No, Pa.” His oldest boy held his gaze, unflinching. “You wouldn’t want Joe to come back to an empty house, would you?”

“Hop Sing is here.”

“Well, yes, but....”

“Adam, it ain’t no use.” Hoss had put on his hat and gloves. He opened the door and flinched as a strong wind blew through it, stirring the fringe on the crimson colored curtains in the room. “Pa’s got every right to come.”

Ben hooked his thumbs behind his belt. “It’s good to know I have your permission.”

“Ah, Pa. You know we’re just worried about you. You ain’t as young as you used to be and it’s gonna be Hell on Earth out there.” Hoss paused, thinking better of what he said. “I’m sure Joe ain’t out in it. He’s smarter than that. We’ll probably find him holed up in one of those caves by the gulch.”

“Hoss’s right,” Adam agreed.

“Well, standing here talking about it isn’t helping your brother. Hop Sing!” Ben bellowed.

Their Chinese cook appeared around the corner, so quickly it seemed he had been listening all along.

He hadn’t, of course.

“Hop Sing come, Mister Cartwright. Have beef in stove. You talk fast.”

Ben smiled. It was clear who truly ran the Ponderosa. “Hop Sing we’re going out to look for Joe.”

“Little Joe not back yet?” the cook asked, concern evident in his voice.

“No, he ain’t, Hop Sing,” Hoss answered, his hand still on the handle of the door. “He’s out there in the storm.”

“Then what are you waiting for? You go find Little Joe.” Hop Sing waved his apron wildly as if shooing them out the door. “Chop chop. You go now. No time to waste! Save Little Joe!”

Ben hid his smile. “Well, boys, we have our marching orders.”

“Come on, Adam. Let’s get the horses.”

As Ben watched his older sons head out the door, he felt keenly the lack of his youngest with his ready smile and infectious laugh. As he stood there, contemplating the worst, the silver-haired man felt a tug on his sleeve. 

“What is it, Hop Sing?”

“Little Joe be okay. He a smart boy. Take care of self.”

Ben touched the other man’s arm and then headed for the rack by the door. Retrieving his hat, he placed it on his head and then took hold of the handle.

“I certainly hope so, Hop Sing. I certainly hope so.” 

 

On the surface of the rushing water that filled the once dry Gray Gulch a bloated form floated. It bobbed up and down, driven ever farther to the south by the untamed flow of water that had rushed from the northern part of the county, flooding every dry riverbed and gully. It was that ‘once in a hundred year’ event the residents of this part of Nevada had been dreading and expecting for ninety-nine years. It had come swift as judgment and moved on like the wrath of the Almighty, leaving the devastation of Sodom in its wake. 

As the body continued its melancholy course, it halted momentarily, caught up in the dry roots of a large tree that had been exposed and overturned by the wall of water that had come and gone. Like a shell caught in the tide, it bumped up against the tangled branches. With wooden fingers like knives, the tree tore at the body’s cold flesh. A surge of water ripped it away, but just as quickly sent it back, though this time it found it course confounded by another form that was strung up on the roots like a figure of hay set out to scare crows. The hanging man groaned, but almost as quickly fell silent. Blood scored almost every inch of his slender form, trailing from a deep gash on his head, oozing out of a tear in the flesh of his arm, falling from multiple lacerations and staining the black trousers and light gray shirt he wore.

Joe Cartwright groaned and opened his eyes in time to see his pa’s prize foal drift away. He watched it, only half aware, until the horse’s swelled form disappeared into the darkness beyond. It could’ve been him – would be him if the water worked hard enough and managed to pull him free of the tree’s saving embrace. 

Still, it made little difference. Even if it didn’t, he was wet and weak and cold and most like to die before anyone could find him. 

A single tear trailed down the young man’s bloody and bruised cheek, carving a trail through the mud that caked it. 

“Pa,” he murmured.

And knew no more.


	2. Two

Gully Washer - Chapter Two 

To die, to sleep, perchance to dream  
William Shakespeare, Hamlet

They had made it to the area east of the gulch but hadn’t been able to reach the ditch itself or to search for Little Joe. By the time they got there, the rain had driven so hard it had washed out all the trails, turning them first into small rivers and then to mud. Ben Cartwright leaned on the stone wall to the right of the opening of the cave he had holed up in with his elder sons and looked out on the dawning day, wondering what it would bring. Would they find Joseph and carry him home to safety? Or would they instead find his youngest’s body washed up somewhere and bear it slowly home to bury? That was a deep fear that tore at the heart of him, but there was something he feared even more.

That they might never find him.

“Pa,” a tentative voice spoke from close behind him. Ben turned to find his oldest boy standing there, a cup of coffee in his hand. “Here, Pa. Drink this.”

“Thank you, Adam. I don’t want anything.”

Adam glanced at his brother Hoss who was watching their exchange. “Pa, you didn’t eat anything last night and you haven’t had anything this morning. At least drink some coffee.”

“I told you I didn’t want anything!” he barked and then instantly regretted it. The silver-haired man ran a hand across his face. Then he reached out and placed it on the other man’s shoulder. “Forgive me, Adam. I’m worried about Joe.”

“No more than we are, Pa,” his son said, his tone gentle. Adam paused and then went on. “You know, Pa, whenever Hoss or I acted like you are – refusing to eat and feasting on worry – you never let us get by with it. ‘How is that going to help?’ you’d ask and then shove the plate into our hands.”

“He’s right, Pa,” Hoss chimed in. “I got some bacon here, and some good biscuits to go with it. You need to eat some afore you fall down.”

Ben looked from the one to the other and then sighed. “You’re right, of course. But you be sure you save some of that food for when we find your brother. Joe’s going to need it.” 

“There’s plenty, Pa,” Hoss said as he dished out a plate. “Guess my appetite’s not what it usually is.”

The boys, of course, were worried sick too.

Ben crossed to the fire and sat down and took the plate. He stared at it for a moment and then glanced out toward the new day. Adam and Hoss were too young to remember the last time a flash flood had devastated the area. He had been a young man then, fresh to the Ponderosa. They had found dead chickens and sheep, horses, and men for months afterward, some buried under mud so thick it took the spring rains to reveal their resting place.

Ben’s stomach churned, but he forced himself to take a bite of the bacon. Weak, he was little good to his son. 

Little good to anyone.

“Where do you suppose we oughta start looking?” Hoss asked.

The older man swallowed over his fear. “You said your brother intended to head for what you boys call the Gray Gulch?”

Adam nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s likely Beauty would have ended up there. We’ve found plenty of sheep and ponies in that ditch. It’s steep. Most can’t make their way out on their own. We’ve pulled a good many out half-dead.”

Ben could see his son regretted the words even as he spoke them.

“Not that I mean to suggest....”

“It’s all right, Adam,” the white-haired man said as he washed the dry biscuit down with the coffee Adam had brought him. “That brother of yours, for all the worry he causes me, has the kind of spirit a man needs to triumph over insurmountable odds. If anyone can survive this, it’s Joseph Cartwright.”

“Yeah, Pa,” Hoss agreed. “That Joe, he’s tough as nails and twice as sharp.”

Ben pulled at the piece of bacon and chewed for a moment. “I think, like we said, we have to start with this gulch. Go to it and find out if it has indeed flooded. You said we should start looking at the northern end?”

“That’s where me and Joe always went. The walls are lower there.”

Adam nodded. “It’s a plan then,” his eldest said as he laid his plate down and headed for the cave’s mouth. “I’ll get the horses ready.”

“You need help, Adam?” Hoss called after his brother.

The black-haired man shook his head. “No. You and Pa finish eating.”

“I notice your plate is still half full, young man,” Ben said in his best stern fatherly voice.

“Ask Hoss. That’s seconds,” Adam replied. “Right, Hoss?”

Hoss looked uncomfortable. “That’s right, Pa. Adam finished off a full plate before he come over to you.”

“I see.” Ben nodded toward Hoss’s own plate that lay on the ground beside him. There was a half-eaten biscuit on it and a slice of bacon. “And you? That ‘seconds’ too?”

“Sure is, Pa,” his middle son replied, a weak smile on his full face. “Sides, like you said, we gotta save some grub for little Joe when we find him.”

 

They didn’t find Joe, but they found the foal – dead.

She was tangled in a mass of branches and the remnants of a wooden structure, her body horridly bloated; her once beautiful coat a network of bloody scratches. They had made their way to the gulch, crawling sometimes on hands and knees through the remnants of forest and home, dragging their mounts after them to find that it had indeed flooded. Adam had moved a little way ahead when he noticed a bit of white shining out of a dark patch of debris. His intact of breath had been audible when he realized what it was. The three of them stood there, staring down at Beauty, all with one thought – it wasn’t Joe. It wasn’t Joe.

But it could have been.

Beauty had obviously been caught in the flood and drowned, and then her corpse carried and deposited here by the rushing waters. What had the night before been a torrent was now a shallow fast-flowing stream. Soon it would dry up again. Soon, it would be as if the flood had never been.

Except for the fact that Joseph was missing. 

“What now, Pa?” Hoss asked.

“We keep looking.”

“But where, Pa? If’n Beauty was carried here, then Little Joe oughta be....” Hoss stopped at his look. “That’s assuming he was caught in the flood, which ain’t likely.”

“It’s all too likely, son,” Ben said, placing a hand on his son’s shoulder as much to steady himself as to comfort the big man. 

“Joe’s a good swimmer, Pa,” Adam interjected.

“Yes. But for a man caught in a gully washer, swimming’s only the half of it. It’s not just water comes rushing at him, but bits of life – trees, branches, stones, and sometimes, like this,” he indicated the foal, “parts of damaged buildings.” Ben drew a sharp breath. “A man’s gotta be conscious to swim.”

“Pa, you can’t lose hope,” Hoss said.

He knew what his son meant – if he lost hope, there would be nothing left for them to hang onto. “I haven’t lost hope, son. Not yet.”

“We should get moving,” Adam suggested. “If Joe was with Beauty, maybe he’s closer to where the gully begins. Like we said, the walls are less steep there.”

“I remember,” Hoss agreed. “That’s where Joe and I high-tailed it away from old Missus Manning.” 

His sons youthful antics brought no condemnation now. “Then you lead the way, Hoss. Take us to where you and Joe used to go.”

It took the better part of the day to make the trek. The ground was so saturated that, at places, it was nearly impassable. The three men continued doggedly forward, refusing to be stopped by anything, but growing – with each step taken and each minute that passed – more and more certain that what they found at the end would be the one thing they did not want to find.

Hoss stopped and shoved his hat back on his head. “Daggone it, Pa. That there flood’s rewritten the landscape. I ain’t quite sure where we used to cross.” He pointed at the broken body of a once sturdy tree. “I think that big tree’s the one me and Joe used to shinny up, but I can’t be sure.” 

Ben glanced at Adam as he and Hoss headed for the tree. His eldest was walking on the edge of the gully, poking with a stick in the mud.

He saw his son’s whole frame stiffen.

Ben caught Hoss by the arm to halt him. “Adam,” he called, “what it is?”

His eldest son’s throat was tight. The words were spit out as if distasteful. “I think you better come over here, Pa.”

Ben began to run. “What is it, Adam? What did you –”

Adam was in a crouch. He rose and pivoted as they arrived. In his right hand he held Little Joe’s black hat. It was covered in mud and its brim badly torn. Adam’s hazel eyes lingered on it for a moment, and then he turned them on him. “It was buried in the mud, Pa. I saw the tip of the brim sticking out. I....”

Words failed.

Hoss hesitated and then said, “But that don’t mean Little Joe’s buried too. He coulda lost his hat. Probably did. A man can’t keep a hat on his head in a storm.” He paused. “Pa?”

Ben knew his son could read it in his face. If Joe had been here with Beauty and she had been struck by the flood, drowned, and her body driven downstream, the odds were high the same thing had happened to him.

The odds were that Joseph, his precious boy, was dead.

 

Nabby Cossington stood on the top of a small hill surveying the destruction the flash flood had left in its wake. She and her brother had just made camp when the hard rains struck. Jude insisted they find the tallest piece of land they could, up and away from the dry gulch that cut through the land since it was a likely course for the torrential rains to take. 

His words had been prophetic. 

She barely recognized the land from the day before. After skirting Lake Tahoe on the northern side, they had struck north, moving onto the lands that bordered the famous Ponderosa. She’d heard all about it from her Pa’s business partner who had lived out west, but given up the dream of a medical practice in Virginia City when his family – along with her own – had been slaughtered by Indians. She’d grown up in the east with Nathan as her father, and Jude and his sister, Kate, as siblings. Even though they weren’t related, they were closer than kin. 

Nabby glanced over her shoulder to see if Jude had returned. He’d struck out early that morning, seeking a pass by which they could continue on. This trip meant everything to her. They had to go on - and quickly. If the letter she had received some six months back was true, then it was possible another member of her family had survived the Indians’ rampage. She remembered little herself – she was only four at the time – but when she closed her eyes at night, sometimes she could see it all happening. There was a woman’s face leaning over her – a beautiful woman who was singing. She reached for her and then stopped and turned toward the door. Then there were other faces, native faces painted for war. She heard the woman pleading, heard the natives whoop in reply, and then she was running, running, running, and falling. There was a gunshot and something fell across her. Something or someone. As her world went black she smelled roasting flesh. It was then she started screaming. 

She was eighteen years old now and she was screaming still.

Troubled by the visions of the past, Nabby felt a sudden urge to move. The nightmares had grown more frequent as they neared the area of her childhood home. It had been east of the Truckee Road, past Ponderosa land, heading north toward Reno. Four weeks after the massacre Nathan Cossington had packed her up along with his remaining children and headed east, never to return.

Until now.

Nabby hesitated. Jude would scold her if she took off on her own. She wrapped her arms about her shoulders and shivered. Even with the sun shining it had turned into a chill wet day, but worse than that, the ghosts of the past were far too present for her liking. 

She needed to move.

Returning to the wagon Nabby rifled through their bags for the one she wanted. Opening it, she found her full-length Merino wool shawl. Tossing her blonde locks back, she wrapped it around her narrow shoulders, adding its warmth to the cotton one she now wore. It wasn’t quite cold enough for the coat she had brought. Besides, the heavy garment was encumbering. If she was going to take a walk, it would be better to remain as unimpeded as possible in case something came up without warning that made her run.

As she well knew it could.

Fortunately, the night before as the rain increased Jude had made her trade her fine slippers for a pair of his boots. They had enough traction for her to make her way down the muddy hill. The sun was up and the land was drying out, but there were still places that were slippery as egg white on a spoon. She fell once or twice on her way down, sullying her indigo blue dress. She had deliberately chosen the dark color for the journey, knowing any of her other dresses – say the Chrome Orange or Turkey Red – would make her an easy mark. 

At the bottom of the hill, Nabby stopped, uncertain of her course. She turned her pale face into the wind and listened to it whistle through the branches of the uprooted trees. It had seemed the storm was over. Now, she wondered if it might not double back. Walking about was foolishness at best and foolhardiness at its worst. With a shake of her head she turned to go.

It was then she heard it. She wasn’t sure what. The sound had come and gone so quickly she could almost convince herself it had never been. Nabby hesitated. She squinted her eyes – as if that would help! – and bit her lip as she gazed out over the devastated land. It might have been a small animal, perhaps one caught in the ruins of what the flood had left behind. 

She had just taken a step forward to see if she could find it when her brother’s voice called out. 

“Nabby? Nabby, where are you?” 

Facing the hill she shouted back. “Here.”

It took a second. “Where’s here?”

“At the bottom of the hill, near the water.”

“What in blazes are you doing down there?” She could hear the exasperation in Jude’s tone. Her brother was all business, with a plan for everything. It drove him crazy when she changed the itinerary.

So, of course, she did it as often as she could.

“I needed to move. I’m fine, really.”

“You look at that sky lately?”

Yes, she had. “I know.”

“I give it an hour at most. It’s time we moved on. This one’s coming from the west just the same, but aiming low. If we move now we can outrun it.”

“All right.” Nabby turned back toward the false stream. There was a tree uprooted from the bank some fifty or sixty feet down. She thought the sound had come from there. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“You come up here right now!”

Her own brother, Joey, had he not died in the raid, would have been no more than two years older than her. Jude was nearly ten, and his sister Kate, twelve years older and nearly a woman when she had gone to live with them. Both had been good to her, but they didn’t understand her. 

“Abigail Cossington I should be seeing the whites of your eyes. Whatever are you doing?”

Jude had used her Christian name. Nabby knew that meant his patience was about out.

“I think there’s an animal trapped in the roots of a tree. I’m going to see if I can free it.”

She could almost hear his exasperated sigh. “Let it die, Nabby. It isn’t worth your life.” 

“I’ll only be a minute. You can come and join me if you like.” After all, she might be able to use his male strength to free it.

“I’ll give you ten minutes, no more, and then I will come down there. Then I’ll haul you up here as soon as Jack Robinson! You hear me?”

“I hear,” she muttered and then thought to repeat it louder. “I hear you.”

Turning away Nabby slipped down a few feet more so she was on a level with the tree’s root system. It seemed the wind wanted to deny her access for it rose as she descended, driving her blond curls back from her heart-shaped face while trying to tear the shawl from her shoulders. If the wind was any indication, Jude was right. The storm was doubling back and if they weren’t out of here soon, they were sure to be caught up in it.  
Several minutes effort brought her to the tree. At first she could see nothing. Of course, she was looking for the white hide of a sheep, or maybe the tawny coat of a fawn.

She was certainly not looking for a young man dressed in what was left of a pair of black pants, the remnants of a light gray shirt, and a gray corduroy jacket. His body hung as if crucified from the roots of the topsy-turvy tree; his legs submerged up to the knees in the brackish water. Transfixed, Nabby remained where she was, torn between trying to help the man and the urge to flee before becoming involved. Uncertain as to which was the most prudent course, she did the only thing she could.

She screamed.

 

Adam Cartwright’s head came up. He rose and, turning back the way they had come, listened. As he did, a free-wheeling red-tailed hawk winged into view over head. It rode the wild wind for a few seconds and then, with a second hair-raising shriek, extended its talons and dove toward the sodden earth. Another squeal, smaller, terrified instead of terrifying, told him the hawk had found its prey. It was the cycle of life. Something had to die for something else to live. Nowhere was that more apparent than on the Nevada plains where a simple mistake – say, forgetting to fill a second canteen before riding out into the desert – could spell disaster. A man had to work hard here to live long enough to grow old.

He hoped his little brother would have that chance.

“Anything, Adam?” Hoss asked as he came to stand beside him. 

He shook his head. “Pa?”

Hoss glanced back toward the camp they had pitched and intended to spend the night in. Their father’s bent figure was a silhouette against the rising moon. “Blamin’ himself.”

Adam’s jaw grew tight and his lips spread thin. He let a bit of his self-reproach out in a controlled sigh, but held onto every ounce of guilt. He’d need it later to beat himself up with if their worst fears came true. “Well, there’s plenty of that to go around.” 

Hoss placed a hand on his shoulder. “You cain’t blame yourself – ” 

“Oh, can’t I?” he asked, his temper rising with his voice. “I know this land. There’s no way I should have missed the signs of that storm. Joe and I were so busy laughing at you and your superstitions that I forgot to pay attention – just once I forgot and it’s cost Joe his life!”

Hoss looked as if he had been struck. It was the first time either of them had voiced what both of them were thinking. “We don’t know that, Adam,” the big man said quietly. “He weren’t under the mud. That means he probably got away, right?”

Adam shook his head. “Joe wasn’t under that particular pile of mud. We have a few hundred to go.”

They had spent the better part of the day at the place where they had found Joe’s hat, digging like three desperate river otters in the mud. He would never forget the moment when their father had stood up holding one of Joe’s boots in a trembling hand. He and Hoss had watched as the older man walked away without saying a word, his body bent as if he carried a wagon-size load. Their Pa loved all of them equally, he knew it, so did Hoss and Joe, but if there were to be a favorite, both he and his middle brother knew it would be Marie’s fiercely independent, impulsive, quick to brawl and quicker to laugh Petite Joseph.

If Joe died the heart would be ripped right out of the older man. He’d survive it – he was Ben Cartwright after all – but their father would never be the same.

Hoss was standing there, staring at him. Adam gave him a lop-sided grin. “Sorry, Hoss.”

The big man shrugged. “No need, you know that.”

Adam nodded. His eyes returned to their father where he had settled on a fallen log at the side of the gulch. “Do you think I should talk to him?”

“I don’t think Pa’s in a talkin’ mood.” 

“Which is precisely why he needs to talk.”

Hoss hooked his fingers behind his belt. His eyes followed the course of the gulch until it disappeared into night’s advancing shadows. “Do you think, well, do you think we’ll find...anything tomorrow?”

“I hope so,” he said, briefly touching his brother’s shoulder as he moved past, heading for their Pa. “And I hope it’s something more than Joe’s other boot.”

“Do you think we’ll find Joe, I mean? Ever?”

There it was. The question that begged an answer. But what answer? What he really thought was that Joe was dead and buried so deep in mud they wouldn’t find his body until the spring thaws came and washed the land clean. Adam closed his eyes as images rushed before them swift and devastating as the flood – Joe with Beauty at the bottom of the gulch. His brother’s brown head coming up at the sound of a wall of water thundering down upon him. A desperate attempt to scramble up the slippery sides of the gulch, almost making it to the top, and then that moment...that moment when Joe realized he was going to be buried alive.

And then suffocate.

The thought almost unmanned him.

“Adam?”

Sniffing, Adam denied the tears that had formed. He waved a hand indicating he was okay and then crossed the ground that separated him from their pa who occupied, he knew, his own private hell.

“Pa?”

The older man still held Joe’s boot in his hands. He didn’t look at him but said, “You know, when Joe was born, I thought I’d never seen a more beautiful baby.” His Pa glanced at him. “All my baby boys were handsome, but Joseph, he had those green eyes and more hair than I had seen capping the head of any child. And the way it curled....” 

“I remember, Pa.”

He nodded. “I know you do. Do you remember when he was still a baby – Joe couldn’t have been more than a few months old – Marie laid him on the bed while she went about her chores and it wasn’t until she heard him crying that she realized he had raised himself up and rolled right off the bed.”

“Joe’s always been determined. He was a handful from the moment he was able to walk.” Adam laughed. “I remember standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding my breath while he worked his way down backwards – he couldn’t have been more than a year and a half. I was scared stiff that if I yelled at him he’d fall. He made it, Pa.”

His father turned the muddy boot over. “Yelling at Joe never did any good.” Ben Cartwright straightened up. “He was a good boy.”

Was.

“Pa,” Adam began, his voice quiet, “you can’t give up hope.”

The silver-haired man nodded. “I know. But I also know I can’t go on hoping in the face of cold hard fact. Your brother was in the gulch. The water struck him so hard it knocked the boots off his feet.”

“We don’t know that. He could have taken them off.”

“Why? Why stop in the face of a wall of water dealing death to remove your boots? No, they were on his feet and they’re here now, buried in the mud – just like him.”

“We didn’t find anything, Pa.”

His father looked directly at him. “Son, we never will.”

Adam was stunned. His father had fought for every inch of what he had, denying fact and overcoming adversity. He had never given up. Never.

Until now.

“I won’t accept that.”

The older man nodded. “You do what you have to do, boy.”

“I will.”Adam vowed.

Ben Cartwright rose to his feet. With Joe’s boot still in his hands he moved away from the tree to stare at the flooded gulch he believed was his youngest son’s grave. A moment later he turned and looked at him. “Adam, I...I need to be alone. Don’t follow me, and tell your brother that goes for him too. When the light breaks we’ll head for home. There’s nothing more we can do here.”

Adam watched his father walk away, his shoulders bent, his usually confident step reduced to a halting shuffle. It was as if the older man had aged twenty years in the last two hours. After a moment, he turned to look at the gully. The moonlight was dancing on the black water that filled it. 

“I’ll do what I have to do, Pa,” the black-haired man vowed, his jaw tight, his mouth a thin determined line. 

“And I’ll prove you wrong.”


	3. Three

Gully Washer - Chapter Three

What fates impose, that men must needs abide;  
It boots not to resist both wind and tide.  
Shakespeare, Henry VI

“Nabby, what is it?” Her brother Jude was breathing hard. He had fairly flown down the hill and worked his way to her side thinking she was in some kind of trouble.

Maybe she was.

“Nabby?”

For some reason her throat was tight, so she just pointed. At first Jude didn’t see the stranger. It was almost dark and the man was tangled in the roots and not swinging free. Then she heard his sharp intact of breath.

“Is he alive?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know,” came out in a strangled whimper.

“Good God! Nabby, haven’t I taught you anything? How are you ever going to be my assistant if the sight of a dead man freezes you in place?”

She blinked. “Is he dead?”

Jude sighed. “Let’s say its’ unlikely he’s alive.” Jude removed his boots and coat in order to keep them dry, and then waded into the gulch. The water reached up to his thighs. It took him a minute or so, fighting against the current, but finally he came up under the man. Reaching up, her brother pulled at him.

“He’s caught. I think it’s his jacket.”

“Can you pull it free?”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to get a grip.”

She could see her brother by the light of the risen moon, but everything was painted in tones of silver-blue and so she wasn’t exactly sure what he was doing. It looked like Jude had found a purchase on the tree roots and climbed up toward the man as they were now nearly face to face. 

“Well?”

“I’m checking for a pulse,” he said. Then, after a minute. “I’m not getting anything, but if he’s near-drowned it might take longer to find it.”

“Can you get him loose?”

“I’m...trying.” There was a pause. “Nabby, go up onto the bank and see if you can reach down from there. I can slip him out of his jacket, but I need to make sure it stays in place. I don’t want to go into the water with him.”

She hesitated, frightened.

“Nabby. Don’t think. Do it now! This man’s life counts on you moving – and moving fast.”

“All right,” she said at last. Shedding her long shawl for fear it would get caught in the branches of the tree, Nabby made her way up the bank. Taking hold of one of the tree’s lower branches, which lay on the ground now, she wiggled in as close to the root system as she could.

“Lean down. His head’s near you.”

Nabby couldn’t really see, but she did as Jude said. With her breasts pressed uncomfortably against one of the roots, she reached down.  
Her fingers encountered a mass of wet hair.

“I’ve found him.”

“All right.” Jude was shifting his position. She felt the man’s body rise slightly as her brother took hold of him. “I’ve got him by the waist. See if you can locate the collar of his jacket and grab it on both sides.”

“Got it.”

“Don’t let go!”

Nabby held on for dear life, denying the image before her eyes of two bodies floating down the waters of the gully. 

“Is he coming free, Jude?”

“Not quite. Not... Maybe....” Triumph entered her brother’s tone. “Got him!”

“Can I let go now?”

“Go ahead. His jacket is so tangled it’s not going anywhere. Head for the bank. I’ll have him there in a minute.”

“Has he moved, or made any noise?”

It took a second. “No. I still can’t find his heartbeat, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. It’s hard to find with someone near drowned. You have that big shawl on, didn’t you? The wool one?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll need to wrap him up in it, get him warm, and then we’ll see.” She heard Jude grunt. “There’s hope until hope is gone.”

“You want me to fetch a lantern?” she asked as she disentangled herself from the roots of the tree.

“Yes. Bring matches as well and bring something we can burn. Everything here is too wet.” As he spoke, Jude arrived on the bank. He lowered the man to the grass and then opened his shirt. Shoving the tattered fabric aside, her brother placed one hand on top of the other and began to apply pressure to the stranger’s chest, counting as he did. “One. Two. Three. One. Two. Three.” 

“What should I bring?”

“Anything,” he replied as he turned the man’s head and opened his mouth. “Papers, clothing, your hat box. We need to get him warmed up fast. Otherwise, he might survive the drowning only to die of the cold.”

With that, Jude pinched the man’s nose and began to breathe into his mouth. 

Nabby left them as her brother began to count again and to apply the pressure. She’s seen him do this on the waterfront in Philadelphia, so the man was in good hands. There had been a ship sunk just within the harbor. All of the doctors were called, even the students. While little was known of this technique in the United States, Jude’s training in England had included techniques for the recovery of those apparently dead or near drowned. 

Her brother had saved half a dozen men. 

Climbing the low hill as fast as she could, Nabby made for their wagon. Rummaging about, she located her hat box, dumped the hat in the bed, and then filled the box with packing paper that she removed from some of their finer items. She anchored the lantern inside. At the last moment she grabbed her coat. Maybe they could put it over him.

As she slipped down the slope again Jude continued the routine, moving from compressing the man’s chest to breathing air into him. He paused for just a second to glance at her. “Your coat, Nabby, that’s good thinking. Put it over him. I need to keep working.”

“Me?”

Her brother turned toward her. She couldn’t see it on his face, but she heard the exasperation in his voice. “What do you think, he’s going to suddenly sit up and attack you?” Jude snapped. “Even if I manage to save him, that’s not going to happen for some time.”

“It’s not that.”

He nodded. “I’m sorry. I know it’s not. It’s death, isn’t it? Just the idea of death makes you afraid.”

Her brother was one of the brightest medical students London had ever turned out. He’d gone there at twenty and returned at twenty-four to set up a practice in Philadelphia. Their father had thought it a good idea for her to train to be his assistant. Both of them, she supposed, had thought that understanding why and how people died would lessen her fear of death. 

It had only increased it.

Nabby watched as Jude continued to work and was suddenly, unexpectedly rewarded for the effort. The man coughed. Water spurted out, and then trailed down from his lips onto his chest.

Jude held the injured man’s shoulders for several seconds as he coughed and then returned to working. The man struggled at first, as if he would stop him. Then he coughed again – violently this time – and more water came up. Her brother held him again. This time, when the fit had passed, the stranger fell silent. Nabby’s blue eyes went to his chest. It was rising and falling on its own.

“That’s a skirmish,” Jude pronounced wearily as he rocked back on his heels, “but the war is far from over. Wrap him up in the shawl, Nabby, while I get a fire going.”

She was staring again. “Is he going to live?”

“I’m a doctor, Nabby, not God. The final choice is up to Him and this man, whoever he is. He’s young, which will help, but a body can only take so much. Once I light the fire I’m going for my instruments. I’ll check his heart and if it’s strong enough, we’ll get him up the hill somehow and into the wagon. It will be easier to warm him and bring up his body temperature up in the bed.”

Nabby reached for the shawl and then began to tuck it around the man’s body. He wasn’t exactly shivering, but there was a deep down tremble she felt as she touched him that she knew from experience wasn’t good. Once she had done as much as she could without light, she left him and went to retrieve the lantern. She picked her coat up as well. When she returned to his side, she spread the heavy garment over him. Then she turned to the lantern and raised the chimney. Striking a match on its base, she lit it. When she placed it on the ground beside the injured man, the pale yellow light revealed his face.

He was beautiful.

Even half-drowned with his skin pale as milk, he was beautiful. 

Nabby reached out to touch the man’s cheek and then his hair. The mass of curls was soft as the fleece of a Greyface Dartmoor. Soaked as it was now, the curls clung to his cheeks, framing what appeared to be the face of a little boy...or maybe an angel.

“Nabby. What are you doing?” Jude’s voice broke into her reverie.

“Sorry, I...” She looked at him again. “Who do you suppose he is?”

“Other than an unfortunate who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I have no idea.” As Jude spoke, thunder rattled the night. “It’s coming. Move out of the way, Nabs. Let me check his heart.”

As he pulled an odd looking device with a silver-edged ebony horn and two long arms on it out of his bag, Nabby said, “That doesn’t look like a stethoscope.”

“It’s one of Camman’s. I picked it up while I was in Europe. It’s binaural.” Jude placed the earpieces in both his ears. “You’re thinking of the one that looked more like an ear trumpet. I have one of those too, but this one is better. It makes the alteration of pitch and sound easier to hear. Now, hush.”

Nabby held her breath as her brother listened, moved the instrument, and then listened again. He did this several times before he leaned back and lowered the stethoscope so it hung about his neck.

“Not as strong as I would like, but it will have to do. If we leave him here and that storm comes, he’ll die.” Jude rose to his feet. “I brought the rope. I’m going to bind it around him under the arms and then I’ll go up top and do the pulling. You just need to guide him up the rise. Keep his head as steady as possible and make sure he isn’t jarred. Nabby?”

She nodded.

It took about a quarter of an hour, but they got the injured man to the top. Jude dropped the rope as soon as they had and came and took him from her. Her brother removed the rope and then physically lifted the man and placed him in the part of the wagon bed she had cleared. After Jude moved out of the way she climbed into the bed and found her suitcase. Opening it, she pulled her dresses out and layered them on and about the injured man, creating a cocoon from which she hoped he would emerge whole.

As she put the last piece in place the lightning cracked. Thunder rolled across the land and it began to rain again. 

Jude hopped into the driver’s seat. “Let’s hope the sunlight dried the trail out enough for the wagon to roll. If it hasn’t, we’ll have to transfer him to the horse and walk.”

“Where are we taking him?”

He shrugged. “For now? Where we’re going. We have no idea where he’s come from and it will be some time before he can tell us, so any destination where there’s a warm bed and a fire will do.”

Nabby touched the bodice of her dress, just above her heart. The letter she had received was firmly ensconced there, tucked tightly beneath her stays . She remembered without looking the address that was written on it in a man’s hand.

Mrs. Antoinette Manning, East of Truckee, north of the bend of the river and south of Reno. 

“Do you think she’s real, Jude?” Her heartbeat was more erratic than the stranger’s. “Do you think this woman could really be my mother?”

Jude made a clicking noise and pulled gently on the reins, easing the horse and wagon forward. 

“All I know, Nabby, is that we’re soon to find out.”

 

Adam stared at the door of their ranch house through which his father had just disappeared carrying Joe’s hat and the single boot. The older man was still reeling – they all were. 

They had found Cochise waiting for them as they entered the yard. 

During the storm one of the ranch hands had found the Paint horse nearby and brought him in. Cochise was covered in mud up to his withers. His legs were cut, and a few of the cuts were still bleeding. He was limping.

There was no sign of Joe.

If the horse had been lame and needed to be put down, it might have been the last blow for their father. The silver-haired man clung to the black and white animal as if somehow that touch could communicate what had happened, where Joe was, and if he was alive or dead. 

The past twenty-four hours were a tribulation Adam hoped never to repeat.

It had started, of course, with the arrival of the storm and the reality that Joe was out in it, and continued on through the day of digging in the mud like grave robbers, and then the long, silent ordeal of the ride home.

They all knew it. Cochise was the final nail in the coffin their little brother would never have.

Joe was dead.

Dead and gone.

The cowhand had been questioned. He knew nothing, of course. They had looked Cochise over from nose to tail for clues. It had been nothing but an exercise. It was hard for them all. The Cartwrights never admitted defeat. 

This was defeat’s last laugh.

Adam gave a last glance at the stable that held his little brother’s horse and then followed the others into the house. It had never appeared gloomier. Most of the curtains were drawn and it was dark as night inside. Their father was sitting in his chair by the unlit fire, Joe’s hat and the single boot on his lap. The older man’s hand lay loosely upon both – these, the last tangible proofs of his son’s existence.

The black-haired man approached. “Pa,” he began.

“Adam, there’s nothing to be said. Not now.”

“Pa, we need to talk.” 

Ben Cartwright shifted back in the chair. “Not now. Tomorrow.”

Adam hesitated. Outside he had declared Little Joe dead. Now, here, in the house he had shared with his baby brother for Joe's entire life, he just couldn’t do it. In spite of the evidence, in spite of everything – he just couldn’t admit defeat. 

“I’m going back out, Pa.”

His father’s head came up. “Not tonight, you aren’t. I won’t lose two sons to a rainstorm. In the morning we’ll gather the men and head out,” Ben sighed. “For all the good it will do.” 

It wasn’t a request.

The order made Adam’s jaw tighten. He wasn’t a boy to be ordered around. “Once the water recedes and a crossing is possible, someone needs to go to the other side of the gulch and see if there are any tracks there,” Adam insisted. “We only searched the one side. I’m going to do that as soon as possible – Stygian blackness or not!” He stepped closer to his father. He had never seen the older man like this. No matter how tough the situation, their pa never gave in – never said ‘never.’ 

He must really believe Joe was dead.

“Pa, there is still hope,” he said quietly. “Even if Joe was caught in the flood, he might have been able to climb up on something or grab hold of a tree in passing....”

His father finally looked up “Adam, you know as well as I do that any tracks that were there are gone, washed away by the rain.”

Adam’s hazel eyes flicked to the single window that remained uncovered, the one in the dining area. It was still raining. “Maybe not all.”

“You also know that if Joe was...caught in the flood and carried downstream there’s little hope a tree would hold anything but his corpse.”

“Pa...”

His father shook his head. His eyes returned to the items he held. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”

“We don’t know he is.”

The older man’s eyes flashed to his face. “I do. You do.”

In his head maybe, he knew. But in his heart?

“I told you, I won’t accept that. I won’t believe it, Pa, until there is a body.” 

His father’s tone was sharp. “And what if we never find one? Are you going to spend the rest of your life, Adam, denying the truth? It’ll eat you away, boy.” His father rose and came to stand before him. He placed a hand on his shoulder. “Do you think, son, if I thought there was even the slightest chance your brother had survived that flood, that I wouldn’t still be out there in the dark clawing in the dirt? I’ve seen these floods before, watched them flow and ebb leaving death and destruction in their wake. The water reaches so high and travels so swift and with such power that nothing – nothing can stand in its way. It can take down a brick building.” His voice choked as he finished. “What do think it will have done to one fragile boy?”

“Pa....”

“We found Joe’s hat buried. We found his boot buried deeper. The water hit him hard enough it blew it right off of his foot. Your brother’s nowhere to be found and Cochise is here.” His father released him. “It’s done. There’s nothing left to do but mourn.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. “I’m still going out tonight.”

Before his father could open his mouth to argue further, Hoss came down the stairs from his room. He was moving quickly.

“What is it, Hoss?” their Pa asked.

“Sheriff Coffee, Pa. He’s outside.”  
“In this weather?” the silver-haired man demanded.

“There’s a passel of men with him. Looks like a posse.”

Adam exchanged glances with his father and then together, the three of them headed for the door. They arrived just as a fist came down on it, knocking, and seeking entrance.

Their father indicated they should step back and then he opened the door to allow the wind to blow in a very wet and weary Roy Coffee.

“Ben. Boys,” Roy said, tipping his hat and frowning as rainwater ran off of it to strike the patterned rug beneath his feet. “Sorry about that, Ben.”

As his father dismissed the sheriff’s concern, Adam asked, “What brings you out on such a night, Roy?”

“Well, the rain ain’t the only thing blown into the area today. You know the Laceys?”

“You mean that family lives north of here on the Truckee Road?” Hoss asked. “With them cute little girls?”

“That’d be them. Pa and Ma and two little girls.” Roy drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “They was killed today.”

“All of them?” Hoss asked, incredulous.

“All of them,” Roy echoed.

“Killed? By whom?” Adam asked.

Roy hooked a thumb behind his belt and rocked back on his feet. “Don’t rightly know. According to the telegram, all the signs point to Paiutes. We’re thinking maybe a renegade band of them, forced this way by the flood.”

Adam wondered if Roy noted how that word made their Pa’s face go pale. “So you haven’t been to the area of the Gulch yet?”

It was an odd question, but Roy took it in stride. 

“Not yet,” he replied. “We’re heading that way now while there’s some light left. The lower roads are all washed out. We’re gonna camp on this side tonight and try to cross by one of the gully’s lowest spots tomorrow. It’s too dangerous tonight.”

“So what is it you want from us?” their father asked.

The sheriff smiled. “I was hoping one or two of your boys could go with us. They’re mighty helpful on a posse. Course, you’re welcome too, Ben.”

One or two, Adam thought. There might be only two now.

He watched his father walk toward the fire. “I don’t think we can help you, Roy. Not tonight.”

“Why not, Ben? I never know’d a little bad weather to slow these boys down. Specially Little Joe. It’s like the rain don’t touch him.”

The sudden, uncomfortable silence finally penetrated the sheriff’s concentration on his own business. He looked from one of them to the other.  
“Ben, is something wrong?”

Their father tried to speak but couldn’t. He shook his head and moved over to the window. Standing there, he stared out.

“Adam? Hoss?” Roy puzzled a moment and then asked, “Has this got to do with Little Joe?”

Hoss answered. “Joe was at Gray Gulch, Roy. From what we can tell he was in the gully chasing down a foal when the flood hit,” the big man said, careful to keep his voice pitched low. “It don’t look like he got out.” 

“Good God!” The older man’s eyes flicked to the figure standing at the window. “So you believe Joe’s...dead?”

“Pa does.” Adam said, his tone a bit harsh. “I don’t believe it, and I’m going back out there to look for him. I’ll look forever if that’s what it takes.”

“Adam, you know I wanta get back out there as bad as you do, but it ain’t no good you gettin’ yourself hurt,” Hoss cautioned. “Leastwise let’s wait ‘til morning like Pa said. Ain’t no tracks to be seen tonight.”

“He’s right, Adam.” At his look, Roy Coffee added, “Here’s a proposition for you. You and your brother join up with the posse and we’ll make for Dry Gulch and search it thoroughly before moving on to the Lacey’s.”

“Maybe I should come along, Adam,” Hoss said though, even as he did, his eyes went to their pa standing by the window.

“No.” Adam touched his brother’s shoulder. “Pa needs someone here. If we find anything, we’ll send a rider back to let you know and then you can gather the men and follow. We can do that, can’t we, Roy?”

The sheriff nodded. “For Ben Cartwright, there ain’t nothing I wouldn’t do.” He looked again toward the window. “You think I should say anything to him?”

“There’s nothing you can say, Roy,” the dark-haired man assured him. “There’s nothing any of us can say. Joe went out looking for that new foal, the one Pa prized so much. He’s blaming himself for what happened.”

Roy shook his head. “Stopping that little brother of yours when he’s got his mind set is like stopping a cyclone from hitting. Ain’t possible.”

Adam nodded. “That’s why I think, if anyone could have survived that gully washer, it’s Joe. I’m not ready to give up hope. Not yet.”

Roy clapped him on the shoulder. “How long will it take you to get ready?”

“Sport’s still saddled. Not long.”

“What’ll I tell Pa?” Hoss asked, rising from his seat.

Adam looked at their father. The older man was in a world of his own. Joe’s black hat was in his hand and he was sitting on one of the dining table chairs, head bowed. 

“Just tell him I went with Roy. Don’t mention the rest of it. If he’s made his mind up to come to peace with the idea that Joe is gone, it’s best we leave it that way.

“After all, it’s probably the truth.”

 

Nabby had chosen to remain in the back of the wagon with the injured man. She had moved some of the dresses and shifted in so her body touched his in order to lend him additional warmth. She glanced up at the sky . At least the rain had stopped and while her coat was wet, the nest of dresses the man lay within beneath it was nice and dry. While the going was tough they were still going, moving at a slow pace over the sodden land. Jude had carefully maneuvered the wagon over the worst of it, getting out at times and walking beside the horse. Now that they had reached the main road there was little fear that the wagon wheels would stick. 

As they continued on they passed a few other folk and exchanged flood stories. Her brother was careful not to mention the man in the wagon and had instructed her to mask the stranger’s face whenever they stopped. As they had no idea who he was, they had no way to tell if the people they met were friend or foe. For all they knew he could have been on the run, or was being chased by someone, or had simply been out for a ride. If anyone had asked about a missing man, they would have questioned them and then decided what to do.

No one did.

Jude said they should wait until the injured man woke up and was coherent enough to tell them. Until then, they would guard him and keep him safe.

Reaching out, the blonde woman caught the edge of the dress just under the coat and pulled it up to cover a gap where the damp air could reach the man’s skin. As she did he stirred. A second later his eyes opened.

They were the most beautiful green.

He looked right at her and his lips moved, but nothing came out.

Nabby leaned in closer. “Yes?”

The man’s hand moved, feebly. It might have been reaching for her, but all it did was claw air. When the word came out, it was strangled and rough as a cactus’ hide. 

“Who?”

Nabby caught his hand. It was cold. She squeezed it as she answered, “My name is Nabby. Nabby Cossington.”

His eyes closed again. It was a good half minute before they reopened. 

“Do...I...know you?” he asked  
.  
She shook her head. “No. Do you know who you are?”

A jolt from the wagon passing over a branch made his eyes go wide in terror. Nabby pressed his hand tightly between her own. “You’re safe here. You don’t have to worry.”

“Nabby, let him rest,” Jude called back over his shoulder. 

“But he’s awake.’ 

Well, he was, sort of.

“We won’t know the full effect of what happened to him for a good twenty-four hours. He’s not out of the woods yet.” Her brother glanced at her. “Get in my bag. There’s some laudanum in there. Fill the cap of the bottle and give it to him. It will make him sleep.”

Nabby glanced at the man as she obeyed. His eyes were open and had taken on a wild look. After filling the cap, she lifted his head and poured the liquid between his lips. It didn’t take long. With a sigh, the injured man slipped into sleep. 

The blonde woman stared at him a moment and then ran her hands through his hair, brushing some of the mass of curls back from his forehead. Her own brother had had hair like that. It was one of the few things she remembered about him. 

As she thought of Joey a powerful wave of weariness washed over her. Shifting down, Nabby laid her head on the thick pile of clothes that lay close to the man’s left shoulder. For some time she lay there thinking and wondering. What would they find at the end of their journey? Had the man who had written to her been right? Had her mother too miraculously survived the slaughter that had taken away everyone and everything that had ever mattered to her, and were they about to be reunited? 

Glancing one more time at the handsome man beside her, Nabby Cossington fell asleep.

This time, she didn’t dream of monsters.


	4. Four

Gully Washer - Chapter Four

Everyone can master a grief but he that has it.  
Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing 

Hoss Cartwright was sitting at the dining table staring at his plate, which was parked on the red and white check cloth. Hop Sing had just gotten done giving him a mighty energetic dressing down for the fact that the food on the plate was still piled high as a mountain and he hadn’t forged no paths through it by eating. Oh, he’d tried. Their pa’s words rang in his ears. ‘A man with an empty stomach is a man who can do no one any good.’ Hoss pushed the plate away. As he did a sad smile lifted his lips.   
Dang it, if his little brother hadn’t managed to spoil another meal for him!  
Hoss glanced at the stair. His pa hadn’t come down yet and he was worried about him. He’s heard the older man pacing the floor of the house most of the night cause he’d been awake too. He’d taken his grief for Joe into his own room where he blubbered like a baby for half the night. As the morning dawned, a quiet resolve had come over him. Their pa always told them that God was the one who controlled everything – good and bad, life and death, rain and floods. He wasn’t sure he knew the big man upstairs as well as his pa did – in fact, he was plumb sure he didn’t – but he’d stood by his window looking out on this first day without his little brother and decided that it wasn’t up to him. If Joe was still out there, it was gonna take a miracle to find him.   
So he’s asked for one.  
The sound of boots on wood turned his attention to the staircase that led to the second floor. His pa was coming down it, dressed for the road.  
Hoss tossed his napkin on the table and rose and moved toward him. “Mornin’, Pa.”  
“Good morning, Hoss.”  
“You going somewhere, Pa?”  
The older man’s brow furrowed like it had been plowed. “I’m going out to look for your brother.”  
It was his turn to frown. “You going after Adam and the posse?”  
The older man moved past him. He glanced at the uneaten food on the table and then shouted, “Hop Sing!”  
It took two seconds. “Yes, Mister Cartwright. There in second!”  
Hoss stared at his pa. There was something...different about him from the night before.   
The Chinese man appeared. “What Hop Sing do for Ben Cartwright?”  
“Bring our another plate of grub.”  
Hop Sing was indignant. “Hop Sing no make ‘grub’.”  
His father actually laughed. He placed a hand on the cook’s shoulder. “Yes, you do. It’s the most excellent grub this side of the Mississippi. Now, may I have some?”

“Hop Sing glad Mr. Cartwright want food.” The Chinese man hesitated. When he spoke again there was real grief in his tone. “So sorry about Little Joe.”   
His pa’s body tensed. “We all are, Hop Sing.”  
“Hop Sing know him from baby. Don’t believe he is gone.”  
The older man lifted his hand and gestured toward the kitchen. “None of us can believe it. Now, if you don’t mind?”  
The cook looked up, tears and a question in his eyes.   
“A plate?” his pa said.  
“Oh! Yes. Hop Sing get food. Make Cartwrights strong.” He paused. “You hear that Mr. Hoss?”  
Hoss nodded. “I hear you.”  
“Hop Sing’s right, Hoss. Come and sit down and eat your breakfast. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

The big man did as he was told. However, when he arrived at the table he didn’t immediately sit down. Hoss gripped the back of the chair nearest the great room and looked at his father. The grief was still there, weighing the older man down – he could see it in the set of his pa’s shoulders and the pinched skin around his eyes and mouth. Still, there was something else. He thought he recognized it, as he too had found it over the dark hours of the night.  
A steely determination.  
“Where you going, Pa?”  
“Sit down, Hoss,” the silver-haired man said as Hop Sing delivered his plate of eggs and bacon. He thanked him and then indicated they should bow their heads briefly. When the silent prayer had ended, his father looked at his plate, picked up his fork, and then sat there leaving the food untouched.   
Hoss waited. He cleared his throat. “I know you don’t like us to fuss, but Adam and I sure are worried about you.”  
“There’s no need to worry, son.”  
He waited again. “I ain’t never seen you like you was last night.”  
Ben stiffened and his eyes flicked to him. He pushed the plate forward, put the fork down, and leaned back. “I’m sorry for that, son. I...I lost my way last night.”  
Hoss sat down. “What a you mean, Pa?”  
His father sighed. “I lost my faith.”  
That made the big man blink. “You stopped believin’ in God?”  
“A man can only take so much, son. I told you, I’ve seen these gully washers before. I’ve been a part of cleaning up the death and destruction left in their wake. A riverbed or gully, dry as bone and safe as the day is long, transformed in an instant to a watery grave.” He paused. “Every day when you boys ride out I ask the Almighty to watch over you and bring you home safe. I asked the same thing for your mother, Hoss, and Adam’s.” He paused. “And Marie.” Ben straightened up. “Sometimes the answer is ‘no’. I just.... I just couldn’t accept that answer for Joe.”  
“You still believe Joe’s...dead, Pa?”  
His father pursed his lips. “I fear it. I know every sensible thing points to it. But do I believe it?” His laugh was short and sad. “Do I believe that bright, beautiful boy is gone? No.”  
Hoss grinned. “I don’t either, Pa. So what’re we going to do?”  
Ben picked his fork up. “First of all, both of us are going to get some grub in our bellies, and then we’ll gather up a half-dozen men or so and follow in the posse’s wake. Adam was right. We need to ford that gully and search the other side. If Joe was caught in the flood – and survived it – he could have been deposited anywhere from here to Mount Rose. If he is alive and out there somewhere, then he’s wet through and most likely injured. There’s no time to lose.”  
“I’m with ya, Pa!” Hoss caught the edge of his plate and dragged it toward him. He picked up the fork and then stopped. “Pa?”  
“Yes, Hoss?”  
“So, if you were doubting God....”  
“I wasn’t doubting, son. I was done with Him.”  
Hoss paled at the thought of that other man who might have been his father. “So what...brought you back?”  
“It’s a funny thing. I walked the house most of the night weighed down by Joe’s loss, feeling the emptiness that came with the knowledge that I’d never hear that laugh or have him go toe-to-toe with me again, challenging everything I say. I went through every memory I had from the time your little brother was born until now and there weren’t enough. You never realize how little you have stored up until you call on it.” He shook his head. “A man needs to pay more attention, he needs to make storing up memories more important than running a ranch or building himself a legacy. Thinking of your brother’s loss took me to his mother’s, and then to your mother, Hoss, and to Elizabeth. It seemed at that moment that God just kept hammering, trying to break me, and if my God was a God who would do that to a man, then I wanted none of him!”   
“I’m sorry Adam or I weren’t with you, Pa,” Hoss said quietly, imagining the pain his father had endured.  
Ben smiled. “It was meant to be. I ended up at the door to Joe’s room. I stood outside that door for the longest time, knowing when I opened it the room would be empty and sure that it never would be filled again. Finally I went in. I sat on Joe’s bed and, after a mighty struggle, fell asleep.” His father rose from his seat and came to lean on the side of the dining table next to him. He waited for him to look up and meet his eyes. “It was early this morning, before you were up. I opened my eyes and there was your little brother looking at me.”  
“You mean Joe?”  
“Oh, it was just a dream, but I didn’t know it at the time. He was whole and hearty with that mop of hair hanging down, his head cocked a little way to the right, and a smile on his lips.”  
“Did he say anything?”  
“Joe? No. He didn’t say anything. But, behind him I could see the sunlight streaming in the window. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains. Outside I could hear the birds waking, singing out their calls to the new day. I honestly don’t know what happened, Hoss, but suddenly I was at peace. I think,” he paused, “I think it was because I saw Joe was at peace.” 

“You’re talking again like you think Joe’s dead, Pa.”  
“I don’t know if Joe is alive or dead, Hoss. We’ll do our best to find him either way. But what I do know if that the man upstairs is in control. He was in control when Joe’s mother died and He’s in control now. You and I, we just have to find the courage to surrender our wills to His.”  
“That ain’t easy, Pa.” He had loved Marie and mourned her death nearly as much as the possibility of his little brother’s.  
His father clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Loss never is, son, but life goes on. Now eat your breakfast, we need to get moving.”  
“You gonna eat yours, Pa?”  
Ben Cartwright looked down at him. “You’re right. I guess it goes both ways, doesn’t it?”   
“It sure does, Pa.”

 

Roy Coffee lifted his hand from Adam’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you be for a time,” he said as he returned to join the others in the posse.  
Adam nodded.  
Then he looked at the stained and torn gray jacket in his hands.   
They had forded the gully near dawn, working their way carefully through the mud and receding water. They hadn’t searched long before they found the jacket tangled in the branches of an upturned tree whose roots stuck out over the fast flowing water. One of the ranch hands had called him. The man’s skin was gray as paste. He’d pointed and stepped back.  
When he saw that jacket his heart broke.  
Joe was dead.  
They had traveled along the gully up to the point where they felt it was safe to cross. There had been no sign of Joe along the way. He had found his brother’s hat and boot the day before a good half mile north. Finding the jacket proved Joe had been in the water and had been carried at least three-quarters of a mile by the flood. There were no signs on the ground of the passage of man or beast, though he had to admit that the rains would have washed any and all away if there had been. Still, it looked like Joe had been in the gully with Beauty at the moment the flood came crashing down. It had struck him – blowing the boots off his feet and flinging his hat wide just like his father had said – and then carried his little brother to this point where Joe had become briefly entangled in the tree’s roots before his body was pulled out of the jacket by the force of the water and carried away, God only knew where.  
Pa had been right to lose hope.  
Adam sighed deeply. He knew it was pointless, but for some reason he had to look again.  
Unwilling to part with his little brother’s jacket, Adam tied the sleeves around his waist and then slid down the slope toward the water. A sort of false shore had been created by the retreat of the fast flowing water and he stopped when he was ankle-deep in mud. Making his way first to the tree and then out to the ends of its roots, he caught a thick one in his hand and swung out even further, peering down the newly created stream toward their home – and seeing nothing. Returning to the muddy shore, Adam began to walk it, looking for some sign. He had just about given up when he found it a few feet up the slope of the hill. He wasn’t sure if it had anything to do with Joe, but it was the first tangible sign that someone had been here – not in the tree, but on the shore.   
It was a small bottle. The rain had washed the label clean, but it looked like the kind an apothecary used to fill a doctor’s prescription. It might have been driven here by the flood, but it was almost clean – not anchored in, or covered with mud. Adam rose with the bottle in his hand, clinging to it like a anchor in a storm. He had been ready to give up.  
He’d also been praying for a sign.  
“Adam.” It was Roy Coffee. His words were quiet, tentative. “You ready to move on?”  
Adam glanced at the tree’s roots again. The rough wooden fingers extending out over the gully had been either his brother’s salvation or his downfall.   
“I’m ready, Roy. There’s nothing here.”  
Nothing but a single ray of hope.

 

“Is there anyone home?” Nabby asked her brother as he exited the rough cabin they had found tucked at the back of a small clearing. The prospect wasn’t good. The yard in front of the split rail structure was unkempt. There were fences falling down, and it looked like the fields had lain fallow for years. There were a few chickens clucking and searching for bugs in the tall grasses and one tethered milk cow, but those were the only signs of current habitation. It had hit her hard. This was the place the locals told them belonged to Antoinette Manning.   
The woman she had hoped would prove to be her mother.   
“Jude?” Nabby asked. “What do you think?”  
Her brother came to stand beside the wagon. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his dark blond hair and then replaced it. “Someone lives here, though the furnishings are meager. There’s a common room area with a hearth that is furnished and one bedroom that has a bed. I opened the cupboard near the hearth and there are provisions.”  
“Do you think it is Mrs. Manning?”  
“The clothes I saw belonged to a woman. I imagine it is.”  
Nabby pulled her cotton shawl close about her. The wind was chill and still carried a threat of rain. “What do you think we should we do?”  
Jude rounded the wagon , stopping when he was at the side of the bed. He reached in and touched the stranger’s forehead with his fingers. “He’s fevered,” he said, and then paused, listening. “Can you hear?”  
Nabby drew closer. “Hear what?”  
“Listen.”  
She did. At first she had no idea what Jude meant, then she heard it. The man’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and there was an odd sound between breaths, something like a rattle.

“Look at his hands,” Jude said as he retrieved his medical bag from beneath the driver’s seat.   
Nabby lifted the dresses and coat that covered the injured man and pulled out one of his hands. “What am I looking for?”  
“Check the tips of his fingers.”  
The stranger’s hands were strong and showed he had done hard manual labor. Still, they were refined as well, the fingers long and tapered. Their tips were blue.  
When she told Jude he shook his head. “He’s showing signs of lung fever. We need to get him into the house. There’s a fireplace in the bedroom. The first thing to do is kindle a fire so we can keep him warm.”  
“Isn’t that trespassing?”  
Jude looked up at her. “And?”  
“And...isn’t that wrong?”  
“Nabby, as a doctor I’m sworn to care for and cure the sick. If I went into a house without invitation for my own gain, yes, I would be trespassing. If I do so to save an injured man, I consider it not only acceptable but necessary. We’ll compensate Mrs. Manning.” He glanced around. “Maybe I can do a few chores while we are here.” Jude came around the wagon and handed her his bag. “Find the bottle marked ‘Southernwood’. I’m going to need it.”  
“What are you going to do?” Nabby asked as she took it.  
“I’m going to free him of all this clothing you’ve bedded him in while you find his medicine. Take the bag in to the table. I’ll need it later. Once you’ve found the bottle, come back. I’m going to need your help to get him inside.”  
Hesitantly Nabby entered the house and went to the table, all the while looking around and expecting someone to jump out from behind a door. Placing the bag on its surface she rummaged inside for the bottle but couldn’t find it. In the end she emptied the bag of all its contents, but still the Southernwood wasn’t there.  
When she returned Jude was lowering the back of the wagon. “What took you so long?” he asked.  
“It isn’t there.”  
He halted and turned toward her. “What do you mean ‘it isn’t there’?”  
“Just that. I emptied the bag. No bottle of Southernwood.”  
Her brother frowned. “I know I put it in there. You’re absolutely sure?”  
She nodded.  
Jude sighed. “Maybe it fell out when I removed the stethoscope. Well, it’s a loss but not a fatal one for him. Did you see the Attic Honey?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. That’s a mix. I can use it.” He indicated the wagon bed with a nod. “You climb up in there. Work your way under him and circle his chest with your arms. I’m going to take his feet and start to pull him out. You guide him. It’s important to keep his head straight and the air passage free. When you get to the edge of the wagon I want you to stop. I’ll take over the heavy part then.”

“All right.”  
Nabby climbed into the wagon. Carefully, she lifted the injured man’s head and then slipped in behind him. He was free of the coverings that had kept him warm now and she could see how battered and bruised he was. It looked like his arm might have been broken above the elbow, and there was a horrible bruise on his left hip. The sight brought tears to her eyes.  
“Nabby,” her brother said gently.  
“Ready,” she replied, though she was anything but.   
“Okay. I’m starting to pull.”  
It took a good two minutes, but they got him to the edge. Once there Jude told her to swing her legs over the side and hold the stranger tightly so he could take over. As she sat there, her arms circling his waist, she realized again this was no pretty city boy with smooth skin who sat at a desk or was a clerk. He was well-muscled, his slender form taut as a well-strung bow.  
“Got him!” Jude said. “You can let go now. Nabby?”  
Nabby started. She didn’t want to, but she released the stranger into her brother’s care.  
“Now come down here and get on the other side of him. As he’s non-responsive we’re going to have to carry him into the house.”  
Once again, doing as her brother ordered Nabby hopped down from the wagon and went to where Jude stood supporting the stranger.  
“Get under that shoulder. Right. Now, we walk together and let his feet drag.”  
She was surprised by how heavy the load was and how long it took them to get the man into the house, and then through it and into the bed. She found several heavy coverlets and buried the man under them while Jude lit the fire. The injured man was shaking, which Jude said was not good.  
Once the fire was roaring, her brother stood up and turned toward her. “I’m going to lay out some strips of linen and an ointment. Do you remember the training I gave you about binding wounds?”  
“I remember.”  
He pursed his lips as he looked at the man. “I don’t know where to tell you to start. Bind the worst of them and put ointment on the rest. We don’t want him getting a secondary infection.”  
“What’s the primary infection?”  
“In his lungs. Probably from inhaling water while he was under.” He indicated the unconscious man. “This is why I said we’d have to wait twenty-four hours to know. Odds are a man nearly drowned is not going to open his eyes and sit up any time soon.” He scowled. “Maybe never.”  
“Do you really think he’ll die?”  
“Like I said, there’s something to be said for youth. No doubt you’ve noted he’s well-muscled and in good shape. He’s probably a ranch hand somewhere.”  
“Why would I have noticed that?” she asked, a bit guilty.  
“He’s also handsome, or hadn’t you noticed that either?” Her brother’s ice blue eyes twinkled. “Nabs, you’re blushing.”  
She picked up one of the linen wraps and threw it at him. “Get out of here.”  
Her brother reached for his coat, which he had flung over a chair by the bed. “Exactly what I was planning on doing.”  
“You’re leaving?”  
“Southernwood is native to this land. Some call it Sagebrush. I need it to prepare the proper medicine for lung fever. The Attic Honey mix will help, but the other one is better.”  
She crossed to him. “Jude, I don’t want to be alone.”  
“I’m sorry. I do understand. If there were any other way I would take it, but this man can’t be left alone and I have to go.”   
With a resigned sigh she said, “I know.”  
“Here.” He handed her his pistol butt first. “It’s loaded. Keep it beside you at all times.”  
Nabby took hold of it like it was a snake. “If I must.”  
“You must. Lock and bar the door after me. Don’t forget.”  
“I’ll come with you and do that.”  
Jude came close and cupped her face in his hand. “Nabs, you are a lot stronger than you think. Don’t let your fear put you out of action. Use it, work it to become more than you are.”  
“I’ll try.”  
“Now, come on,” her brother said. “Walk me to the door.”  
With one last glimpse at the stranger, Nabby followed Jude through the common room of the cabin. As he went out the door, she halted. After waving him on his way, Nabby pushed the door to and barred it. Then she leaned against it, still holding the pistol, and let the tears flow.  
She wasn’t strong. She never would be. She was scared and insecure and unable to do and be what her brother demanded. This was the frontier – the place where her family had been slaughtered. Her mother had been alone with her and her siblings – maybe in this very house – alone in the wilderness like she was now and there had been nothing she could do to prevent what had happened to them .   
Nothing.  
Just like there was nothing she could do to help the injured man.  
Well, no, that’s wasn’t entirely true. She could bind the cuts and put ointment on his bruises and ease his pain for whatever time he had remaining.  
Glancing again at the door through which her brother had passed, Nabby felt a stab of pure panic.  
She sure hoped Jude returned soon. 

 

The sun was past noon and well down to the horizon by the time he and Hoss and the hands they had gathered found the place where Roy Coffee’s party made camp the night before. It had taken them some time to ride out and round up the men, and then even more time to load their saddlebags with provisions including some of Joe’s clothes, whiskey, and a few bottles of medicine. Ben was determined – if they did find Little Joe – that he would have the right things along to take care of him. Time was running out. If Joe had survived the flood he was probably out in the open somewhere, freezing cold at night and hot as desert rock at the height of the day.   
Just the thing to bring on a fever and take a man down.   
Since the rain had fallen off, the tracks of the members of Roy’s posse were still visible. Some had remained in camp to care for the animals and make the grub, others had kept watch on the horses and patrolled the perimeter. There were two who had headed down toward the gully.   
Ben was certain the one who made it to the mud shore was Adam.  
Following in his eldest son’s footsteps he and Hoss slipped to the bottom of the hill.   
“Them’s Adam’s prints all right, Pa. I’d know that heel and the turn of his foot anywhere.”  
“I wonder what he was looking for? “ Ben scowled. There was nothing here but the gully filled with fast-flowing water, the muddy shore, and a topsy-turvy tree with its roots shooting out. The older man kept hold of the long grasses on the slope and began to work his way toward the tree.   
“This is the only thing within yards that he.... Hoss!”  
“Pa?”  
“Hoss, come here!” Ben said, turning back. He saw his son react to his urgent tone.  
“Did you find something?”  
“I don’t know. Anchor me while I reach out.”  
Hoss was more than an anchor, he was a rock planted firmly in the earth. Relying on his son’s strength, Ben stretched out as far as he could. When he came back, it was with a small scrap of fabric in his fingers.   
“What is it, Pa?”  
He hadn’t been certain. Now, he was. Ben closed his eyes and his hand and sighed. “A piece of your brother’s gray jacket.”  
“Are you sure, Pa?”  
The older man handed the scrap to his middle son. “You tell me.”  
He saw it in Hoss’s eyes – recognition – and then the same horrific thought following fast upon it. “Yeah, it’s Joe’s.”  
Ben felt the darkness tugging at him – that inside darkness in which a man disappeared or finally drowned. He denied it.  
For now.  
“What do you think, Pa?”  
“Adam isn’t here,” he said at last.  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“If your brother came down here and found a remnant like this, or maybe Joe’s jacket, and he thought all hope was gone, then don’t you think Adam would have been waiting for us? Or that we would have met him somewhere along the way, heading for home?”  
Hoss nodded. “That makes sense, Pa. It sure does.”  
“So we have to assume that finding the jacket told Adam Joe was alive somehow.” The smile was small, but it was there. “Wouldn’t’ you say?”  
His middle son smiled back. “I would, Pa. That I would.”  
Ben reached out and took Hoss’s shoulder – mostly to steady himself. This was the first possibly positive news they’d had in two full days.  
“You figure we should follow him?” Hoss asked.  
“We will. And we’ll join the posse if we can. Together, we may benefit both searches.” Ben glanced up the slope. “We need to send the hands back. There's work to do and we can continue on our own. I’m gonna have one of them go to Virginia City and alert the doctor. If we find Joe, he’s going to need one quick.”  
“Sounds good, Pa.”  
“Yes, Hoss,” he said, giving his son’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s the first thing that’s sounded good in three days. “Let’s hope it’s not the last.”


	5. Five

Gully Washer - Chapter Five

Our wills and fates do so contrary run  
That our devices still are overthrown;  
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.  
Shakespeare, Hamlet

Nabby had done all she could for the injured man. She had tried to be as clinical as she could – as Jude would have wanted – because it entailed undressing him down to his drawers, washing him, and then wrapping the injured places on his arms and legs, some of them in rather delicate areas. She had tried to pull the clothing back onto him, but it had seemed to cause him pain, especially when she tried to move his arm. She didn’t think it was broken, but even so, it was injured severely and a good place for infection to set in. So instead she wrapped him up tightly in her shawl again and then pulled the coverlets she had found in the room up and over him. Jude had built a good fire and it was roaring. She was actually sweating. Taking one of the unused strips of linen she tied it about her head above her ears in order to catch the perspiration. As she knotted it an absurd thought occurred to her.  
She must look a sight!  
Her eyes flicked to the injured man.  
Like anyone would care.  
Rising, Nabby crossed to the washstand and dipped her hands in the tepid water, clearing away the remains of dried blood. The man’s body was fiery to the touch. Apparently the tincture she had been giving him was not the one he needed as Jude suspected.  
She hoped her brother returned soon.   
After dipping a clean strip in some fresh water, Nabby made her way back to the man. Once there she sat beside him and used the wet cloth to wipe away the blood that continued to ooze from the gash on his forehead. He was moving again. It had happened several times while she worked on his wounds. He would shift and open his mouth, but nothing came out. For a minute or two he would thrash – sometimes coughing, sometimes shouting – and then he would fall deathly still. Nabby placed the cloth on the chair by the bed and reached out to press his shoulders back into the bedding.  
Quicker than lightning, he caught one of them.  
Nabby gasped.   
His question came in words that were forced through teeth gritted against nearly intolerable pain.   
“Where...where am...I?”  
“Safe,” she said. Jude had always taught her not to give details so she wouldn’t influence what the patient remembered. “Can you tell me what happened?” she asked.  
He was breathing hard. Releasing her hand be began to fight something only he could see. “Water. There’s...so much water! No. No! I don’t... I don’t want to drown!”  
“Calm down,” she said as she caught his outstretched hands. Though it was all she could do to overcome even his weakened strength, she held them fast. “You’re safe,” she repeated. “There’s no more water. You’re in bed in a cabin. You’re safe.”  
Repeat it often, her brother had said, make the patient believe they were all right.  
“No...no....” Tears ran down his cheeks. “Pa....”  
“Who’s your pa?” Take advantage of them too, Jude had taught her. Sometimes it was the only way you could learn the truth.   
“Pa....”  
“Who is your Pa?”  
The man fell silent. For a moment she thought he was unconscious again. Then he stirred and his green eyes opened. “Pa?”  
“What’s his name?”  
“Ben,” the sick man said.  
“What’s his last name. Hey! Look at me,” she demanded.  
It was no use. He had lost the battle and was now completely unaware. Nabby tucked the coverlet up against the stranger’s chin and placed the wet cloth on his forehead, and then went into the other room and sat at the table. As she did, she remembered she had left Jude’s gun on the table under a pile of towels in the stranger’s room. She should get back up and bring it here. Should, but she didn’t think her legs would carry her that far.  
Lord! She was weary.   
Resting her head on her crossed arms, the blonde woman thought once again of the letter she carried and wondered if the man had really meant this cabin and this Mrs. Manning. There was something not right here.   
Something strange.  
Seconds later Nabby Cossington was sound asleep.

 

In the bedroom, wrapped in a warm woolen shawl and buried deep within a cocoon of coverlets, Joe Cartwright dreamed.   
It was pitch black. There was nothing around him – no land, no sea, no sky or ground. And it was silent, deathly silent, as if the world held its breath. There were only two things he could hear – his heartbeat and the harsh, rapid breaths he blew out of his nose. There was no threat that he could see but he was scared lily-white. He kept turning from side to side, trying to figure out where he was, but the blackness had no end.   
He couldn’t escape.  
As he moved about, a hand raised before himself for protection, Joe heard a horse whinny. That was right. He had been hunting his Pa’s foal. That was Beauty nickering and beating the earth with her hooves. He remained still, getting his bearings, and then struck out to find her, following the sound and walking a path he could not see.   
“Beauty! Where are you, girl?” he called.  
Her whinny moved. She was farther away.  
“Beauty!”  
This time when the horse snorted, it was close. She was right on top of him! Joe whirled with his arm still raised just as the horse’s hooves struck out. He screamed in agony as he felt the bone crack and fell to the ground and curled into a tight ball, trying to give those punishing hooves as small a target as possible. It did no good. The filly struck him again, and again, and again, driving him into the mud, trapping him below its surface, forcing him down into a premature grave. Mud filled his mouth as he opened it to scream.   
Then...then, he heard it coming. He couldn’t see it, but he heard it – a sound like a wagon train flying fast down the road or a whirlwind picking up speed. It grew closer and closer as the wind grew stronger and raindrops like miniature knives cut into his exposed skin.  
Then it was on him. The gully washer struck, blasting him out of the mud, tossing him arse over head, throwing him against the sides of the narrow channel through which it ran, pulling him under and then letting him claw his way up so there was hope before it grabbed him and pulled him down again. The last time he came up it was beneath a big tree whose roots stuck out over his head. He caught one of them with his hand and thought the water would tear his arm off in order to claim him. Reaching up, he caught another branch with his injured arm, screaming as pain cut through him like a knife but holding on...holding on somehow. Hanging there, dangling like a condemned man from a rope, he lifted his eyes to the sky, seeking the courage to stay alive and to not give in to the blackness that sought to carry him away. Moving his cold hands, he deliberately twisted the gray fabric of his jacket sleeves into the branches and then tugged at them to make sure of the hold before losing consciousness.   
Joe gasped and opened his eyes. Wildly they darted about his surroundings. This wasn’t the Ponderosa. Where was he? Who was the girl he remembered? Was she even real? After a feeble attempt to lift himself up from the bed failed, he called out weakly.  
“Hey. Hey, you. Can you...hear me?”  
When no one responded and nothing moved he tried again.   
“Miss? Are...you...out there?”  
In answer Joe heard two things – a chair scooting back and a door opening.  
A second later there was a woman’s scream.  
Breathing hard, he forced himself up on one elbow. “Hey! What’s...” He was panting hard. “What’s...happening?”

There was no response, but he heard low voices exchange words. The woman screamed again, farther away, more desperate this time. With an effort of will that surpassed anything he felt capable of, Joe sat up and swung his feet onto the floor.   
It was then he realized he was next to naked.  
A shout and the door slamming told him he had no time to consider how he’d lost his clothes. At least he had his drawers and there was a long shawl wrapped around all the important parts. He pulled it tight and rose to his feet.  
A second later he fell to the ground.  
Breathing hard, Joe lay on the floor for near a minute before lifting his head. When he did, he wished he hadn’t. Standing in the open doorway was an Paiute warrior. He was wearing a buckskin shirt over a pair of sagebrush bark breeches. He also had a gun.   
It was pointed straight at his head.  
For a moment they stared at each other and then the warrior walked over. The man stood looking down at him and then deliberately brought his moccasin down on his injured thigh.  
Joe bit his lip so hard it bled but he didn’t cry out. He knew the Paiutes respected strength. There was little hope the warrior would let him live, but it couldn’t hurt to prove he was a worthy enemy. The warrior grunted approvingly. The Indian walked to the table then and fingered the strips and bottles there before turning back to look at him. Joe remained where he was. Again, the man grunted. Then, without warning, the Indian picked up the basin of water on the table and threw it on the fire putting it out in a hiss of steam. Joe’s head was swimming and he was breathing hard, but he thought he knew what the man had in mind. Since he now considered him worthy – and they could not meet in battle – he would let him live.  
Without heat, food, or water.  
Maybe showing he was a worthy opponent had not been such a bright idea.  
After smashing the bottles, the warrior returned to him. He shouted something and another Indian, who must have been waiting in the common room, came to join him. The first man tossed the blankets and coverlets on the bed to the second, and then bent down and ripped the shawl right off of him. Pitching it after the others, the native grunted and headed for the door.  
Joe knew what he was contemplating would be his death, but a quick one seemed preferable to lying here alone, dying from the combination of whatever was wrong with him and starvation.   
Marshaling every ounce of strength he had, Joe put it all into one burst of energy that sent him hurtling after the other man. He almost reached him. He would have if the second man had not stepped forward and struck him on the back of the neck with the butt of his rifle.   
Joe dropped to the floor and lay there stunned.  
A minute later his consciousness fled to the sound of the warrior’s combined laughter.

 

Jude Cossington remained concealed in a clump of trees as one of the renegade Paiutes placed his gagged and bound sister Nabby on the back of his horse. It had taken everything that was in him to restrain himself from flying out of the trees to stop them as he saw her being dragged out of the cabin. Being a man of reason and order, his instincts had kicked in quickly, calculating the odds that such an action would save her.  
They were too low to determine.  
The best thing he could do now was let the Indians take her and then track them to their camp. Once they were settled he would come up with some scheme to free her.  
Somehow.  
As the Paiute’s painted pony shied and then answered the native’s pressing knees with movement, two other Indians came out of the cabin. One of them was wearing the blue coverlet that had been on the injured man’s bed. They laid a pile of blankets over the pony’s back, and then both of them swung up onto the same horse and followed the one carrying Nabby.   
Jude hesitated, uncertain of what to do. If he didn’t follow immediately, he would lose Nabby, but if he left the stranger alone – especially after whatever wickedness the Paiutes had committed – he might lose the stranger. His oath bound him to help the sick and wounded.  
Family bound him to Nabby and in the end that won out.  
When he realized something was wrong at the cabin, Jude had retreated and tethered the horse and wagon back a hundred yards or so along the road before returning. He would have to go back for the horse in order to follow these men. Odds were they wouldn’t use the road. Their kind would cut up through the harshest country and count it a Sunday afternoon buggy ride.   
Guilt nearly crushed him as he turned from the cabin and started for the wagon and horse. In the end, a physician was only as good as his training made him. He used what he had to work miracles, but sometimes – often – the miracles had to be left in the hands of the One who’d made the injured or sick man to begin with.   
Committing his patient to the care of the Great Physician, Nabby’s brother began to run.

 

They had ridden hard for most the day. Adam was exhausted, but still he protested when Roy Coffee called a halt to the day’s search. He had been puzzling about what he had found and the only conclusion he could draw was that someone had come along and found Joe and freed him from that tree. He thought it might have been a physician. Who else would have a bottle of Southernwood? He’d opened it and smelled it and he was sure that was what it was. If God in his mercy had sent a doctor Joe’s way, then there was a good chance his brother could survive whatever residual effects his journey in the rushing water had left. Water in the lungs was a dangerous thing, and there was always the chance of a simple infection occasioned by swallowing it killing a man.  
Adam started out of his reverie. He had forgotten the sheriff was there.  
“Adam, all of that is plain conjecture Why, you don’t even know that bottle wasn’t put there by the flood.”  
“I know,” he admitted. “I just.... Well, Roy, I just feel it wasn’t.”   
“I hate to say it, son, but don’t you think that’s just wishful thinking?”  
“Roy, either I believe there’s a chance Joe is alive and I keep on looking, or I give up and crawl into a hole and pull the dirt in on top of me.” He sighed. “I prefer to think there’s a chance.”  
“Well, Adam, you’re gonna hafta make up your mind soon. The boys and I think we need to cut across country and we want to get started before its completely dark. If your doctor is real and he has Joe in a wagon like you think, then he would have followed the road.”  
“I know.”  
“I hate to lose you, son. You’re good on a posse. But I understand.”  
“Thank you, Roy. I think you know my choice already.”  
The older man nodded. “I was afeared of that. Well, at least I can see you’re supplied well. You got enough grub, water, and such?”  
Adam nodded. “I packed twice what I needed and brought whiskey and bandages too...just in case.”   
Roy Coffee was silent for a moment. “You Cartwrights, I shoulda knowed nothing would stop you hoping. Your Pa had me scared the other night.”  
Ben Cartwright’s older boy smiled. “You’ve known pa for years, Roy. Would you say he has a favorite?”  
“Favorite?”  
“A favorite son.”  
“Now Adam, that’s a question a man don’t rightly want to answer.”  
“It’s okay, Roy, I’ll answer it myself. First, I know our Pa loves us all equally. Maybe ‘favorite’ isn’t quite the word. I just think Pa might be a little partial toward Joe.” Adam paused. “Here’s what I mean. Say you have three horses. One is always constant, always reliable. Another, friendly as the day is long. The third is a beauty, but a little wild. It causes you nothing but trouble. But when you watch it fly faster than a hawk with the wind cursing for not being able to catch up, and see it kick up its heels and nicker with pure joy, well, which one would be you be a bit partial to?”   
Roy nodded. “You just find Little Joe, you hear?”  
Adam saluted smartly. “Order understood, Sheriff.”  
Five minutes later Adam watched and the posse located a deer run and began to work their horses up the ridge even as the light faded.  
A minute later they were gone and he was alone.

Knowing there was little he could do in the dark, Adam went to his saddle and selected a blanket. Along with it he carried some coffee and jerky to the remnants of the fire Roy’s men had made. As he was alone he didn’t want much of one, but he worked to make it smaller and then put the crushed coffee beans in a metal pot with water and placed them over the fire. The scent soon set his mouth to watering, so he scrounged in his pocket and found a piece of jerky. Pulling it though his teeth, he broke off a bite and chewed on it, lost in thought.   
Adam had been sitting there, maybe ten minutes, when he realized he was not alone. Lowering his hat to cover his eyes and settling in on the ground, Adam pretended to fall asleep. He waited a minute and then worked to keep his breathing even and slow. He had made sure his pistol was loaded before making the coffee and it lay close by on the ground. Even as he heard whoever it was circle the camp within the cover of the trees, his hand crept closer to it. He had to stifle a laugh twice. Whoever it was certainly didn’t know how to mask his movements. They’d stumbled, recovered, and then stumbled again. They were on the northern edge of the camp now having come up from the southwest. He wondered what they wanted and why they felt the need to hide. His half-lidded eyes flicked to Sport. The horse was tethered on that side of the camp. Maybe it was a horse thief.  
A pathetic horse thief.  
Adam listened a moment longer and then decided he had had enough. Catching the pistol up from the ground, he rose and fired the weapon in one swift movement, striking a tree just to the east of Sport. The animal shied and its hooves beat the ground.   
Whoever was behind the tree yelped.  
“You can come out now,” Adam called. “I know you’re there.”  
When the man didn’t move, he advanced a few steps. “I’m going to count to three. If you don’t come out, I am going to accept the fact that you are horse thief and robber and as a horse thief and robber deserve shooting. One. Two. Thr –”  
“All right. All right. I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”  
He didn’t know what he expected but it certainly wasn’t a city slicker in a suit. The man was not tall, but neither was he short. Adam would have put him at about five-foot ten or eleven. He wore an elegant but tattered suit cut of a fine blue cloth with a thin black tie at the neck of the white shirt underneath. He had neither hat nor outer coat. His face was haggard and his dark blond hair disheveled, as though he had been traveling through the trees on foot for some time.   
Adam waved the gun. “So, I admit you don’t look like a horse thief. Who are you?”  
“My name is Jude. Jude Cossington. I lost my horse and wagon several miles back when the animal caught its foot between two branches and both went tumbling down the hill. All I managed to save was myself and my bag.”   
“It’s obvious you’re not from around these parts.”  
“No. I’m from Philadelphia. I came here with my sister Nabby, looking for lost relatives.”  
“Sister?” Adam’s brows shot up. “You have her with you?”  
“No. That’s why I was moving too fast and didn’t watch where I was going. A band of Paiutes came to the house where we were staying. They took her.”  
If that was true, this man was in more trouble that he had thought at first.  
“Did they want anything else, or just her?”  
“Just Nabby, though I wasn’t there at the time they took her. I was coming back when I saw them and decided to follow rather than fight.”  
“Smart man.”  
“Thanks.”  
“Did they take anything else? A raiding party is usually looking for several things. Supplies. Weapons.” He paused. “Then women if there's a need."  
“Well, I didn’t go into the house,” Jude said. “I didn’t want to take a chance of losing them.”  
“And what did you think stalking me would do?”  
The city slicker was embarrassed. “I was going to take your horse.”  
“Oh. Do you know what the penalty is for taking a man’s horse on the frontier?”   
“Why, I.... I suppose....” Jude’s voice trailed off. “No.”  
Adam walked over to him. “Let’s just say it’s a good thing you didn’t try.”  
“Why are you out here?” the stranger asked.  
Adam hesitated. It never did to tell anyone too much too soon. “I’m looking for my little brother. He has a habit of getting into trouble.”  
“Could the Paiutes have him too?”  
He hadn’t considered it, but it was a possible answer to Joe’s disappearance. “They might.”  
Hope entered the city slicker’s eyes. “Would you come with me and help me look for Nabby? If we don’t find your brother along the way, I’ll help you look for him once she is free.”  
Adam considered it. Any direction was a direction he hadn’t decided to take yet. “I was planning on staying close to the road.”  
“It seems they are too, which surprised me. I can show you their tracks. I’ve been following them as best I can.”  
So Roy had been wrong about the Indians leaving the road. “All right. You do that. Let me get Sport and put out the fire and we can be on our way.”

 

Joe awoke to a bone-chilling world of pain. The house was completely silent. Outside, night had fallen and the temperature along with it. Near naked as he was, sick and fevered, he might as well have been outside in a snowstorm. The Paiute warriors had taken everything, the meager blankets, the warm coverlet – even the shawl that had been wrapped around him.   
He felt helpless as a babe.   
Closing his eyes, Joe concentrated on what his body was telling him like his pa had taught him. ‘God gave us an inborn sense, Joseph,’ he said. ‘Listen to that, it's Him telling you what to do.’  
At the moment his inborn sense was telling him to curl up and die, but he didn’t think that was what his pa had meant.  
Joe could feel the fever raging through him. He didn’t know if it came from the near drowning or was the result of an infection. He could move his arm, so he didn’t think it was broken, but it hurt like Hell. The bruise on his thigh throbbed along with all of the other cuts and bruises that covered him, but there was something more to it. Another infection, maybe? Or maybe something was torn. Whatever it was, he doubted he could put his full weight on it.   
At the moment his immediate concern was to get warm. He was shaking like a leaf in an October wind. He needed something to cover up with and even more, a fire to sit beside. The Paiute had watered this one, so it was probably useless to try to kindle it again so soon. He could smell smoke. The odds were there was another one in the other room. The warrior must have thought he was too sick to make it there. Joe snorted. The warrior was probably right  
Still, he had to try.   
Joe counted to ten and then tried to lift his body. He succeeded in getting it off the floor a few inches – enough so that he could reach up and catch hold of the frame of the bed he had been lying on. With a mighty effort he hauled himself up onto it and then fell back breathing hard. He gave himself a few minutes and then fought to sit up again.  
Fought and lost.  
“Joe,” he said aloud, trying to talk himself into it, “you’re gonna...die on this bed if...you don’t move.” His head was spinning and he could tell the fever was reaching toward a pitch. It felt like all of the strength had been sapped out of his muscles. Sick as he was, he managed a weak smile. He reached up and felt his head. Delilah hadn’t shorn him.  
He still had his hair.  
As he lay there panting, waiting for the weakness to pass, Joe heard a door open. Someone came into the house. They paused, probably realizing something was wrong, and then advanced into the common room, Blinking sweat out of his eyes, Joe feebly raised a hand and called out, “Hey. Hey. Whoever...you are...I’m here.”  
He doubted his voice had carried into the other room. He’d have to hope that whoever it was would notice the open door and come to check. As he waited, Joe’s eyes grew heavy and he fought off sleep. At least he hoped it was sleep. He hoped he wasn’t going to pass out.  
He was afraid if he did, he might never wake up again.  
A figure stepped into the open frame of the door. His vision was blurred, so he couldn’t really see them, but he thought it was a woman. What had the name been of the one who was trying to help him?  
Hatty? Abby?   
Nettie?  
The figure moved from the door and hesitantly approached him. She didn’t seem frightened, just puzzled. She came to stand beside him and looked down. Through the haze he saw a head of blonde hair and a pretty face. He thought she was older than he remembered, but wasn’t sure. Her dress was blue like he recalled and her touch gentle as she sat beside him and took his hand in hers.  
“Hey,” he said weakly.  
“Shh,” the woman said, laying a hand on his forehead briefly before running her fingers along his cheek and chin. “Now, you hush. Maman will take care of you.”  
Joe blinked to clear his eyes. It didn’t work. The woman remained stubbornly out of focus. As he fell back into the fever, he mustered the strength to reach out to her.  
“Maman?”  
She kissed his fingers and then his face. “Hush, gentil Joey. Your mother is here now,” she said, her voice soft and touched with a French accent.   
“And she will never let you go again.”


	6. Six

Gully Washer - Chapter Six

But, howsoever thou pursuest this act, taint not thy mind,  
nor let thy soul contrive against thy mother aught.  
Shakespeare, Hamlet

Nabby Cossington cowered in the back corner of the brush and wood wickiup she had been placed within. The Indians had left the road shortly after taking her, though they remained close to it, and traveled several hours to their camp, which was far into the woods. Upon their arrival, she had been placed here under the watchful eye of a middle-aged woman who was busy using a stone mortar and pestle to turn grain into flour. Apparently they thought she was incapable of escaping as they had not bound her feet or wrists. They were probably right, of course, and even if they hadn’t been, she knew enough about Indians to know that a white woman on foot would have no chance to outpace one of their warriors.

Her only hope was that Jude had found her missing and gone for help.

As she sat there, trembling, Nabby thought about the raid she had survived as a child. Her mother would have been only a little older than she was now when the natives had overrun their house, killing her husband and son and – as she no doubt believed – daughter. It had been terrifying enough to raise her head from her arms and see the native’s painted faces glaring at her. She couldn’t imagine having two children to protect and facing the very real possibility that both of them were about to die. A tremble ran the length of Nabby and a little moan issued from her lips as she thought about it. The Indian woman must have heard it. Her head came up and she laid down the stone pestle. Rising, she crossed to the other side of the wickiup and returned with a wool blanket in her hands, which she dropped around Nabby’s shoulders. 

What was this? A gesture of kindness?

Nabby burst into tears.

The native woman drew a long breath, looked toward the door, and then returned to her work. 

“Please,” Nabby pleaded between sniffs, “please make them let me go.”

The woman kept working.

Nabby had no idea if the woman spoke English or had any understanding of what she was asking. Still, her tone had to say it all.

“Please....” 

The woman looked at her and shook her head. As Nabby fell back against the wickiup’s wall, the flap that closed it was raised and a warrior about the same age as the woman stepped in. He glanced at her and then went to talk with the woman. They exchanged a few words. Nabby saw the woman nod and strike away a tear of her own. The man touched her black hair and then leaned down and followed it with a kiss. Straightening up, he crossed the short space to Nabby’s side. Once there, he stared down at her. 

“You will live here now,” he said, startling her.

“But I don’t want to!”

His face was masked, but she could read pain in its lines. His lips turned down and his eyes were narrow slits.

“You live here. Help wife.”

Her gaze went to the kind woman. “I would be happy to help, but I want to go back to my family.”

“No go. You stay here. No one to help now but you.”

Nabby frowned. She looked at the woman again. “Did you...lose someone?”

The native drew a breath and let it out slowly. “Many someones. Some dead. Others still dying.”

They must have been injured during another raid on some other poor rancher’s house. She knew of the Indians ways from her childhood. They didn’t really kidnap people, they were making a trade. For every family member that was lost or killed, they would simply go out and take someone’s else’s mother or father, sister or brother, and count it even. 

She looked at the woman again. Yes, she could see the grief in the way she held her body and the darkness cradling her eyes. She had lost someone recently. 

“I’m sorry that you lost someone,” Nabby said, “but I don’t want to be here. I want to go home.”

“Girl home now. Stay here. Help.” The man stared at her. Hardness entered his voice. “Do not try to run.”

She nodded, though it was more of an acknowledgment of the threat than a promise that she would stay put. She doubted she had the courage to seize it, but if an opportunity presented itself to escape – frightened as she was and hopeless as it was – she was bound to try. 

 

“Looks like Adam met up with someone else, Pa,” Hoss Cartwright announced from his position on the ground. He was looking at two pair of boot tracks. One belonged to his brother, the other to a man who had chosen the wrong boots for the terrain. 

“They haven’t been gone more than a couple of hours,” the silver-haired man answered, kicking at the ashes of the fire. “Who do you suppose it is?”

At first, of course, there had been the hope that their brother had found Joe. Now it was obvious it wasn’t him. Hoss stood. “I don’t know, Pa, but I’d say he’s a city slicker. Them’s some mighty expensive boots.”

His father’s dark brows peaked. “Expensive and useless, eh?”

Hoss nodded. “His feet is probably mighty sore by now.”

“So what do we have?” Ben asked. “Adam parted company with Roy’s posse about five miles back. By the pacing of his horse’s hooves he was moving slow, looking for something. He left the road and made camp for the night. A little later this stranger arrived.” The older man turned to look north. “Then they left the camp together.”

“Maybe it was them other tracks, Pa. The Injun ones.”

Ben nodded. “Maybe.” They had found the natives tracks just within the cover of the trees. It seemed they had been staying close to the road for some reason, but wished to remain hidden. “At least we know the Indians didn’t take them.”

“But what about Joe?” His middle son came to stand by him. “Could they have taken Joe?”

“It’s a possibility,” he had to admit. “It would explain why we can’t find your brother. But why? I know the Paiutes often abduct women and children, but a young man your brother’s age? Joe would be considered a warrior to them and dangerous.”

“Little brother’s always dangerous, Pa,” Hoss said affectionately.

His father laughed. “No, I don’t think they would’ve taken Joe.” He sobered quickly. “More likely they would have considered him a threat and ended his life.”

That brought a frown to Hoss’s beefy face. “Still, Pa, do we dare take a chance?”

The silver-haired man thought a moment. “I don’t like it, but I think you and I are going to have to part.”

“Go two ways, you mean?”

He nodded. “You need to see where Adam and the city slicker have gone. I think I need to find out where they came from.”

“How come, Pa?”

“Consider this, Hoss. Maybe the man tracked your brother down to tell him Joe was being tended at some cabin or ranch, and then something happened that they had to head out in the opposite direction. It’s a long shot, but – ”

“All we got left is long shots, Pa. Don’t do to leave any stone unturned.”

“I agree. We’ll meet back here at sunrise. Don’t take any chances, you hear? If you discover Adam is in some danger, come back and get me. Don’t tackle it yourself.”

Hoss nodded.

“Son, I need your word.”

The big man hesitated and then he said, “Okay, Pa. You got it.”

“Good.” His father clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s hope one direction or the other is the answer to our prayers.”

 

Little Joe opened his eyes a crack. A bright light lit the room, stabbing them and making him want to close them again. He lay still for a moment and then was wracked by a coughing fit that started and built and had no intention of ending. It lifted him from the ticking he laid on and sent pain reverberating through his battered frame. When he had worn himself out he fell back to the bed exhausted. He could hear something rattling in his chest. He’d had bronchial catarrh as a child and could still smell the noxious concoction Hop Sing cooked up to break up the congestion. Immediately his thoughts flew to lung fever. He’d watched a hand die of it. The man had fallen in the river and been soaked to the skin. The doctor told his pa he must have breathed in some contaminated water. The progress of the disease had been rapid. The hand died within the week.   
How long had he been sick, he wondered? He could remember tracking Beauty and her stomping on him, and then something crashing down on them both. It seemed like there was a lot he had forgotten since the last time he had been awake, but then that wasn’t unusual. One time when Adam had been sick he’d thought he was 13 years old again. 

It was fun, for a moment, to be the older brother.

With his eyes closed, Joe lay there, thinking for another few minutes. His fever didn’t seem so high now, which was probably why his thoughts made sense. He knew enough to know that, most likely, that wouldn’t last. Fevers had a way of coming and going and climbing ever higher until the one who had them didn’t know where or who he was. There had to be some way to get word to his pa and his brothers that he was alive. Opening his eyes, he braved the piercing light and looked around the room. It was coming from a simple oil lamp on the table. By the lamp was a pen and a few sheets of paper. A note! Maybe he could write a note and the person who was taking care of him would see it and send it to his pa. 

Gingerly, he attempted to move his body and sit up. Every muscle protested. He was so weak it felt like he’d lain in bed for a month. Joe thought back to working on the range, digging post holes, and bucking broncos. Right now he didn’t think he could take a seat at the table and tuck a napkin under his chin. A sudden fear ran through him. If he survived, would his muscles recover? Might he be invalided? 

He’d rather die.

Joe concentrated for a moment and then drew a breath before making a second attempt. It was a mistake. Even the shallow amount of air he drew in set him coughing again, and the coughing made his head ache and his ribs scream and he nearly passed out.

This time it didn’t go unnoticed. 

Joe heard a woman exclaim and a moment later she was sitting at his side. Gently she lifted him up and cradled his shaking form until the fit had passed. “I am here mon enfant,” she cooed. “Maman is here.” 

Joe couldn’t help it. He fell back against her. There was something comforting in the feel of her arms about him. But he didn’t understand. Enfant meant infant.

He was anything but.

“Ma’am,” he said between coughs. “Who...are you?”

He felt her stiffen. Her hand went to his head. “The fever is very bad, my young one,” she said quietly, “if you do not know your own mother.”

The coughing had subsided for a moment. He caught his breath and turned to look at her. The woman was pretty and blond, just like he remembered. But his mother was dead – wasn’t she?

Joe blinked back tears. “Marie?”

The lines of her face reset in a frown. “My son, you know that is not my name. Tell me what it is.”

A shiver ran through him. He had only just realized the blankets were back. They weren’t enough. He was freezing. 

“Ma’am,” he said, “I’m mighty...grateful for your help but...you can’t be my mother. Her name...was Marie and she’s...dead.”

The effort nearly exhausted him.

“Joey, you know I brought you up never to tell a lie. If you continue on, I will have to punish you.”

Joe blinked. There was something odd in her tone – almost...a threat?

“I’m sorry, Ma’am – ”

“Maman.”

He swallowed hard. “I’m sorry. I don’t...mean to offend, but...I’m not your son.”

She stood so abruptly his head fell back and struck the frame of the bed, setting it reeling.

“You will not say such things!” the blonde woman shrieked, nearly hysterical. “I am your Maman and you are my Joey and I do not understand why you are being so wicked!” She spun away from the bed and returned holding a tray in her hands. As she spoke she threw it to the ground, shattering crockery and spilling the food. “I brought your supper but you will not eat! You will not eat again until you repent of your wicked ways and tell your Maman you are sorry for being wicked! Lay there and do not leave your bed. I will return in the morning!” 

Before she left, the woman crossed to the table and extinguished the light, leaving him in darkness. 

Joe was breathing hard. He wasn’t sure if it was weakness or the disease, or just plain fear. Halfway through her speech something had struck a chord. He’d been here before. When he was little and he and Hoss had come to the widow Manning’s place looking for water, she had trapped him in the house and tried to keep him from leaving, thinking he was her dead son. That had been some thirteen or fourteen years ago. Her ‘Joey’ would be just about his age now.

Joe shivered and then another fit of coughing took him. When it ended, he was nearly spent. 

It didn’t matter. Antoinette Manning was plain crazy. 

He had to escape.

 

“Jude, keep your head down!” Adam ordered in a terse whisper.

The city slicker ducked instantly – just before the native scout would have seen him. “Sorry. I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

Adam rolled his eyes. No news flash there.

They had traveled for several hours and managed to locate the Paiute camp. There was no sign of Jude’s sister, but Adam thought he knew where she was. He had seen an Indian woman coming in and out of one of the wickiups. There were no other women. If Nabby had been taken, not for a wife but as a replacement for, say, a daughter that had been killed, most likely she would be left in the care of a woman. There looked to be five men and the woman for a total of a half-dozen natives. Not bad odds. Still, he had to remember the man with him had no experience of the frontier. Jude had told him he was a doctor recently arrived from the East. That was why he had risked his neck to save the small black bag he carried.   
If they ever found Joe, it would do him in good stead to make sure the doctor didn’t lose it.

Adam still hadn’t said much about his own quest. Part of it was a natural reticence one learned in the west where the code said a man took care of his own, but another part was the fact that – in spite of what Jude had told him – he still didn’t know the man. Even the story about his sister could be just that, a story. Jude could be in league with the Indians, or someone looking to harm them. 

Out here, a man had to prove his worth.

“Adam!” He felt a tug on his sleeve. “There. That’s Nabby.”

He looked and saw a pretty small-boned blonde girl in a tattered blue dress ducking through the door of one of the two wickiups. The Indian woman was with her and it looked like they might be heading out to gather firewood. 

“Let’s go get her!”

“Jude, wait.” Adam stifled a sigh. “Watch.”

Seconds later two of the warriors trailed after them. 

“They know this is her best chance of escape. Nabby will be watched even more closely. It will be easier to move around the back after dark and remove some of the brush from the side of the wickiup and take her out that way.”

“Dark? You mean, wait until nightfall?”

Adam’s dark brows shot up. “You have a social to go to or something?”

“No. No.” Jude’s face grew long. “Due to what happened to Nabby I was forced to abandon a patient. It was that, or let her disappear. You see, it would be bad enough if Nabby hadn’t been through all of this before.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Nabs is my adopted sister. Both our families lived here, in this area, when we were little. Do you remember the Shaw raid?”

Adam nodded He certainly did. Two families had been slaughtered by renegade Indians, mostly young men on a drunk. There had been three survivors – one boy and two young girls.

“You mean you sister is Abigail Shaw?”

It was Jude’s turn to be a bit surprised. “You have a good memory.”

Adam drew a breath. “So you’re Jude Carrington?”

“Yes.”

The black-haired man glanced at the forest into which the women had disappeared. “I don’t think I ever met you. Your family always went into Virginia City for supplies. But Hank Shaw worked for my father. I remember his little girl. She was about my brother Joe’s age.” Adam smiled. “She was too young for me to take too much notice of.”

“You’re Ben Cartwright’s son?” Jude asked, amazed.

“Sorry I didn’t tell you before.”

“No. No. I didn’t tell you everything either.”

There was something funny about the way the man said that. 

Adam dismissed his suspicions in the face of what he knew. “I remember when you went off to study in England. I wasn’t too long returned from college myself.”

“I would have remained in England, but Nabby needed me – and the west needs doctors.”

“We certainly do. I have a little brother who seems to need one about once a week,” he muttered as he shifted and took another look at the camp. “I’ve been watching their patterns. There’s something in that other wickiup that’s got the men upset, especially that older one. My guess is someone is hurt or dying.”

He saw the conflict in Jude’s eyes. These men had abducted his sister. Now one of them needed his skills. 

“No, Adam.”

“They might trade your sister for your services.”

The doctor looked stunned. “You think that might be a possibility?”

Adam raised his hands. “Jude, I’d put your bag down and put your hands up real slow if I were you, and then turn around.”

The man from the city frowned. Then Adam saw the reality of their situation dawn in his pale blue eyes. Jude did as he was told, raising his hands and turning slowly.

Behind him were to the two Paiute warriors Adam had mistakenly believed were trailing the women. 

“It looks like we are about to find out.” 

 

Ben Cartwright stood scratching his head and looking at the remains of a fine buckboard wagon crashed at the bottom of a steep hill. By the light of the rising sun Ben could just make out the details of the wagon. It was new and was one that would have cost a good deal of money. It still contained most of the possessions of its owners – a woman’s suitcase, a silk parasol, plenty of provisions, and a heap of pretty dresses among other things. It was the dresses that puzzled him. They were all out of the suitcase and spread wide in the wagon and on the ground. He supposed someone could have come by and opened the suitcase and riffled through them. Still, it appeared nothing was missing and he hadn’t seen any tracks other than the owner’s.

Ben glanced at the sky. It was time he moved on. He had stopped here and caught a few hours sleep, waiting for the sun to shine enough that he could see. It was dawn of the third day since they had lost Joe and something in him told him they were running out of time. If the boy had managed to survive and was on his own, he was about at the limit of what a man could take. Without food and rest, and maybe medicine, the smallest infection could take him. If Joe was alive, it was imperative they find him in the next twenty-four hours.

If Joe was alive....

The silver-haired man drew a deep breath and blew it out along with the temptation to despair. He’d given his son’s fate to God and he’d let God keep it. 

All he could do was keep searching and hoping.

Stepping over to the wagon, Ben watched as the rising light struck the bed and its spilled contents. He was thinking about how Joe’s mother Marie would have despaired to find her fine dresses laying in the mud. Out of respect for Marie he bent and picked the garments up off the ground and placed them in the wagon’s damaged bed. As he did, something struck him. He stopped and retrieved the last one, a bright orange dress with a yellow pattern, and looked at it.

The dress was covered in mud and blood.

Digging deeper, he saw they all were, as was the bottom of the wagon’s bed. Whoever owned it had been transporting someone who was injured. Ben’s heart leapt in his chest. He had no reason to believe it was Joe, but then again, he had no reason to believe it had not been his son. He cleared the bed, but unfortunately found nothing that would tell the tale one way or the other. Turning, Ben looked to the north. Adam was in the company of whoever had been driving. If he knew anything, it was sure to come out. As for him, he was on the road to the place where the wagon had come from. 

He’d continue on and hope against hope that the object of his day’s long search would be there, and that Joe would be safe and whole.

 

Joe woke to the light coming in the window. He felt a little stronger for the sleep. Still, he knew he was weak as a day old kitten and just as vulnerable. He shifted and waited for the cough to explode. Nothing happened. Maybe if he just breathed shallow, he could control it. Pushing it further, Joe sat up. He had to wait until the room stopped spinning, but then he swung his feet over the side of the bed frame and sat on its edge. Blinking back dizziness, he searched the room with his eyes. There wasn’t much. A lamp, a table with a book on it, a pile of rags, and a stack of towels. He decided he would need both of those if he was to make a break for it. The ones he was wearing were soaked through with blood.  
Gathering his strength, he tried to rock forward and onto his feet. The first attempt failed, but he made it on the second. He stood there swaying for a moment and then half-stumbled over to the table and sat in the chair next to it. It was only then that it clicked that he was no longer near-naked. He was wearing a pair of different black trousers and a white linen shirt that only half-fit. Nettie Manning must have dressed him in some of her dead husband’s clothes. 

She probably didn’t want her baby boy to get cold.

It took him several minutes and he was shaking like a leaf by the time be managed to button the shirt. Determined to escape, Joe forced himself to stand. He lost his balance almost immediately and his hands came down hard on the table, jarring the lamp and sending the towels scattering. The sick man blinked. Was he seeing what he thought he was seeing? He reached out. The cold metal fit into his hand perfectly.

He had a gun.

At that moment Joe heard someone stirring in the outer room. He tucked the gun behind the waistband of his pants and then stumbled more than walked across the floor and fell back into the bed. Once there, he pulled the covers up tightly about his chest, burying the weapon deep in the nest of cloth. 

A second later the door opened and Antoinette Manning came into the room. Joe hated to take advantage of a distracted women, but it was the only way he could think of to achieve his goal. 

It didn’t take him much to effect a weak, sickly tone. “Maman,” he called out, reaching with his free hand. “Is that you?”

She came right to his side and sat on the bed. “Oui, Joey. Are you better now?”

“I’m sorry, Maman. I...I didn’t mean to...hurt you. It’s just.... I’m so sick.” 

She laid a hand on his forehead. “You have a fever. It is very high.”

He really didn’t need to hear that. “I’m cold. Could you...make it warmer in here?”

“But, of course. Do not move. I will return in a moment.”

He watched her walk into the other room, his mind whirling. There was no way he could dart past her. He would have to send her out or manage to trap her in order to get away. “Maman?” he called.

She appeared in the doorway with several logs cradled in her arms. 

“If you are not...too tired, could you...also get me something to eat?” 

The older woman crossed to the hearth and placed the logs on the andirons. She used the flint and steel to strike a spark and worked until she had a small fire going. Then she crossed back over to him. “Now, mon enfant, I will get you something to eat so you may gain strength.”

Joe waited until he heard pans clanking and then pushed himself up and out of the bed and took a position behind the door. He stood there panting for a moment and then gathered enough air to cry out, “Maman! I’m on fire. Maman! Help!”

He heard a pan hit the floor and the woman come running. Listening closely, Joe stepped out at just the right moment and tripped her by placing his good leg in her path. Before the madwoman hit the floor he was out the door and had slammed it and dropped the bar in place. Then he slid to the floor exhausted.

Within seconds Missus Manning was pounding on it and cursing in French. He didn’t know what she was saying, but he didn’t think he really needed to. He was sure it lay somewhere between ‘I’m going to tan your hide’ and ‘You’re dead!’

Fearing it was the latter, Joe forced himself to rise. He looked at his bare feet and then around the cabin. He didn’t see any boots. Weak and hungry, he grabbed a piece of stale bread off the table as he passed. Munching on it in spite of the nausea the taste elicited, he headed for the door. There was a woman’s coat by it and he caught it up from the hook and flung it about his shoulders as he stepped out. 

Halting briefly on the stoop, Joe considered which direction he should go. The sun was rising, so he could tell east from west. At that thought, a longing stronger than any he had ever felt overcame him. 

Joe swayed on his feet. West. His Pa always talked about the west.

West must be home.

Dropping barefoot into the wet grass Joe Cartwright limped away from the house and entered the trees, seeking the Ponderosa and his beloved pa.

The only problem was the Ponderosa lay to the east.


	7. Seven

Gully Washer - Chapter Seven 

What 's gone and what 's past help should be past grief  
Shakespeare, The Winter’s Tale 

He’d been right about what was going on in the other wickiup. Adam stood toward its back, watching Jude as he knelt beside the injured Indian boy and began to examine his wounds. It had taken some convincing – and a good amount of flowery speech – to persuade the Indians that the white man from Philadelphia could help. Fortunately, the men who had captured them had brought Jude’s black bag and the city slicker had a few tricks in it. He had used a small amount of powder to send one of the warriors into a sneezing fit, and a tincture to numb another’s tongue so he couldn’t talk. Convinced that Jude was indeed a mighty medicine man, Chief Returns to War had granted Jude access to his youngest son who lay dying of an infection from a white man’s bullet – on one condition.

The condition was that if the boy died, they died too.

The promise to let them go if he lived was a little less well defined.

Adam asked with his eyes if he could go to Jude’s side. The tall native by the door nodded as he knew medicine men usually needed an assistant and assumed he was it. Kneeling by the wounded man, he caught Jude’s eye and then asked, “Can you save him?”

The doctor pursed his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Um, can you be a little more specific than that?”

“Adam, I just don’t know. That bullet’s been in there for days. The infection is rampant and advanced. Still, he’s strong and young. Stronger than you or I would have been at that age. If I can get the bullet out and get the inflammation quieted, I imagine he will pull through.”

“How long until we know?”

“Ah, there’s the rub.” Jude’s blue eyes flicked to his face. “It might be a week.”

A week he didn’t have.

“Once you tend him, will he be out of danger?”

“So long as there is no outside agent, he should be.”

“Then we have to find a way to – ”

“Too much talk, white man. Help or go,” one of the warriors said as he came to their side.

Adam rose to his feet. “I want to talk to your chief.”

The two warriors exchanged a glance and laughed.

“No, really. You don’t know who I am, but your chief will be very unhappy if I come to any harm.”

It was a bit of a bluff, but not entirely. His father had had dealings with many of the lesser Paiute chiefs. Adam just hoped it had been with the chief of this particular group of Paiutes.

“Chief no care what happens to white man. Chief kills white man!” The warrior made a fist to emphasize his point.

“Does the chief kill the son of a white man who saves his sons and daughters?” His father was known as a fair and generous man to the Paiute. He had helped the Indians on more than one occasion, permitting them to cross Ponderosa land, and even helping one group to escape their pursuers. “Well, does he?” 

“Who is your father?” the warrior demanded.

He held his breath. “Ben Cartwright.”

Recognition dawned in the native’s eyes. 

Thank God!

For a moment the Indian said nothing. Then he nodded and left the wickiup.

Returning to Jude, Adam said softly, “I am going to try to plead with the chief for our freedom. The Paiute honor debts and if I guessed right, Returns to War is indebted to my father. If you save his son, he will be indebted to you too.”

“Can you ask about Nabby, or better yet, tell him she is my assistant and I need her?” Jude paused at his look. “It’s true. She’s in training.”

Adam thought of that pretty little gal in the blue dress and imagined her holding a man down while a bullet was pulled from his gut.

“Whatever you say, Jude.”

 

Five minutes later Adam was standing before the chief of this band of Paiutes. Returns to War was near what the white man would call ‘elderly’, which was ancient for an Indian. His scarred face was tough but not hard. Wisdom and a bit of humor shown from his watery eyes. The two warriors who had brought him in had left to stand guard outside the wickiup, but not before one of them had shoved him and ordered him to move closer.

Probably so the old chief could see his face.

Returns to War said nothing for some time. Adam knew enough to wait. Finally, the ancient Indian stirred. 

“You are Ben Cartwright’s son?”

“I’m the eldest. I have two brothers.”

The old Paiute nodded. “I remember. One was barely more than a baby and the other, not yet a warrior when last I saw Ben Cartwright.”

Adam’s whole body sighed. So he had guessed right! 

“Yes. That’d be Joe and Hoss.”

“Your father is a good man.” The old chief paused. “Are you a good man, Adam Cartwright?”

Adam pursed his lips. How did you answer that? “I believe that I am,” he said at last.

“Most white men are bad.”

“No. I disagree. Most white men are good, but there are bad among them.”

“The white men who did this to my youngest son are not good.”

“No. They are not.” Adam paused. “Do you know who they were?”

“Yes. And the one who leads them. This man was here long years ago when my people were hunted down and killed for crimes they did not commit. He wears army trousers and an Indian’s shirt.”

“Why would he return?”

“To finish what he began nearly twenty years ago. Do you remember the Shaw family, Adam Cartwright?”

Adam stiffened. This was too much of a coincidence. “Yes.”

“This man, he is the one who murdered the Shaws and their kin.”

“But that was done,” Adam hesitated, “by Indians.”

“No. It was done by white men dressed as Indians. Boyd Blue Coat, he was a major in your army before he was disgraced. He wanted the woman and he killed to get her.”

“Antoinette Manning?”

The chief nodded.

“My Pa never said anything.”

“Things that are broken and cannot be mended are best left lying in the dust. Ben Cartwright knew it would do no good. Who would believe the Indian over a soldier?”

“So that’s why Pa helped you and let you leave by passing through Ponderosa land.” Adam scowled “I still don’t understand. This man, he killed to have the woman and then left her where she was?”

The chief shook his head. “The man took her. She was with him for six months before she escaped. The law knew by then, that he had done evil things. It was save his own skin or return for her.” The chief’s expression said it all. “You know which path the coward chooses.” 

Adam’s head was reeling. “And Mrs. Manning?”

“She wandered for weeks. When they found her, the spirits had taken her.”

In other words, she was mad.

“By then her family had assumed she was dead and moved back east with her remaining child,” Adam said. “Did you know the girl your warriors took was Antoinette’s child?”

“Yes. When we saw her return to her mother’s house, we knew. At the time, the Indians did not think her dead but taken, like her mother. As part of a debt owed your father, I sent my men to find and bring her here. I did not tell them it was to save her. They are young. All that matters is counting coup against the enemy. Nettie’s child is safe here from this man.”

“Do you know his name?”

The chief spat. “I do not honor him with one.”

“You do know that the sheriff thinks you and your men killed the Lacey family? I suppose that was this man as well?”

“In order to hide the taking of the one he wants, he kills many.”

The irony, of course, was that no one would care now if Antoinette Manning disappeared – no one, that was, but Antoinette Manning herself.

“The doctor who looks after your son. He’s Nathan Cossington’s son.”

The chief seemed unimpressed. “All things come full circle.”

“Returns to War, I will go and tell my friend that he and his sister are safe here, but you must let me go. My youngest brother was caught in the flash flood a few days back. I was looking for him when I ran into Jude and we were taken. Time is running out. I need to find him.”

“Ben Cartwright’s youngest? The baby?”

Adam laughed. “Don’t let Joe hear you call him that. He’s seventeen and thinks he’s thirty.”

“You believe he is alive?”

He nodded. “I have to believe it.”

The ancient chief stood up. “I will come with you. If your friend and his sister promise not to try to escape, you may go to find your brother. Only you cannot tell them why they must stay. I cannot trust my young men.”

 

Adam noticed an immediate change when they entered the wickiup where the chief’s son lay. The boy’s breathing had been labored. Now, it was even and he seemed to be at peace.

“Nothing like Laudanum,” Jude said as he rose to greet him.

“Jude, this is Chief Returns to War. He knows my father and has agreed to let me go and look for my brother.”

“And Nabby and me?”

“Jude, do you trust me?”

The doctor nodded. 

“I need you to stay here. Your lives depend on it.”

Jude frowned. “I don’t understand.”

Adam reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know. That’s what trust is.”

At that moment someone entered the wickiup. Adam turned and saw that it was Nabby Cossington, Jude’s sister. He might have recognized her, but fourteen years had changed her from an awkward girl into a woman. She was disheveled, her face was filthy and her dress tattered and stained, but none of that mattered. The smile that lit her face when she saw her brother was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen.

“Jude!” she exclaimed and fell into his arms. 

“Nabby, thank God!”

The hug lasted near a minute before the girl reared back and asked a strange question. “What are you doing here, Jude?”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You left that man back there alone to die?”

Jude looked sick. “I had no choice. If I hadn’t followed immediately, I would have lost you.”

“But he was so sick! I thought your oath didn’t allow you to let anyone die.”

His eyes brimmed with unshed tears. “My oath means little next to my family.”

Adam joined them. “What is she talking about, Jude?”

The doctor shook his head.

Nabby answered. “There was a man, a young one. We found him hanging by his arms from a tree. It looked like he’d been caught in the flood, though some of his injuries – well, I don’t think they happened in the water. His arm was near broken and it looked like someone had struck him here.” She pointed to her left hip. “We tended him as best we could.” She whirled on her brother. “Jude, I can’t believe you left him!”

Adam caught her arm and turned her back. “Wait. Wait. Describe him.”

Nabby blushed. That was almost enough of an answer. 

“Nabby, tell me what he looked like.”

“He wasn’t real tall. He was slender and dressed in gray and black.” She smiled. “He had the most beautiful brown hair, mounds and mounds of it, and green –”

“Good God! That’s Joe!” He shook her. “Nabby, you just described my brother!”

Jude came to join them under the watchful eye of the Paiute’s elderly chief. “My patient? He’s the brother you are searching for?”

“Joe’s small built. He has curly brown hair and green eyes and was wearing gray and black when he set out from the house. In my saddlebag there’s a gray corduroy jacket.”

“The man we pulled from the tree was wearing a gray jacket. It was caught in the roots of the tree that saved his life.”

Adam’s head was spinning. He felt the need to sit down, but there was nowhere to sit. The joy he felt was intoxicating. But then into the sunshine of that joy came a dark cloud.

“Nabby, why are you afraid for Joe? You said he might die?”

“His temperature was high, Adam. Jude thought he was developing lung fever.”

“I didn’t think it. He was,” her brother said quietly.

“I was tending him, giving him medicine and keeping him warm until these savages came and tore me away.” Nabby was indignant.

Of course, she had no idea what was really happening.

“I’ve got to get to him,” Adam said, pulling himself together and setting all emotion aside until he actually found Joe. “Where did you leave my brother?”

“At Antoinette Manning’s house.”

Adam’s stomach sank to his toes. He glanced at the chief and back to Jude. “What?”

“We were headed there, so we took him with us.”

“Why were you headed there?”

Jude turned to his sister for the answer. Nabby hesitated and then said, “Adam, Antoinette Manning is my mother.” 

 

Hoss Cartwright followed his older brother’s tracks. They had led him to the Indian camp that lay before him. He could see Adam’s mount, Sport, tethered to a tree by the closest wickiup. So far he had counted four warriors, but he imagined there were more. Lifting his gun from the holster, the big man moved in closer. There was nothing he could do until he knew where Adam was. The wrong choice might put his brother in danger or get him killed. There was some kind of a powwow going on in the one sage grass and bark structure. He couldn’t tell what it was about, but he could hear voices talking fast. Shifting his bulk, Hoss squeezed into a narrow space between two rocks and settled in to wait.

It was at that moment that Adam walked out of the wickiup.

Alone.

Hoss held his breath as his brother crossed to his horse. Adam unhitched it but then, instead of mounting, leaned his head on the saddle and remained still for a good minute. It was all Hoss could do not to run across the open ground to his side, but the big man knew that would be stupidity itself. Just because the Indians had let his brother go that didn’t mean Adam was free. They might be watching him, maybe sending him out as bait.

Leaving the rocks, Hoss took hold of Chubb’s reins and, once he had determined the direction Adam was heading, worked his way along the path while remaining hidden in the trees. When it seemed Adam wasn’t being followed, he waited until his brother came abreast of his hiding place and then pitched a stone in his path. As Sport snorted and backed up, Adam’s hand went for his gun. It came up empty. The chagrined look on his brother’s face told him he had forgotten he didn’t have one.

“Adam! Hey, Adam! It’s me, Hoss,” he called.

His older brother reined in his horse. Sport stood there, champing at the bit, blowing air out of his nostrils.

“Hoss? Is that you?”

“Yeah, Adam. Is it safe to come out?”

Adam dismounted and looked in his direction. “It sure is.”

As he stepped onto the road, the big man said, “What’s this all about? The Paiute let you go?”

“It’s a long story,” his brother admitted wearily.

“Well, Adam, why don’t you tell me –”

“There’s no time. “ Adam drew a breath. “Joe’s alive.”

Hoss heard the words but they didn’t register. “What?”

“Joe’s alive!” His brother grabbed his arm. “Jude left him back at Mrs. Manning’s house.”

“Who’s Jude?”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ve got to get to Joe. He’s hurt, Hoss. And sick. If we don’t find him soon, he will be dead.”

The big man blinked, making an attempt to process what his brother had just said. It took a few seconds. 

Then his face lit with a grin bright as the sun.

“What’s wrong with you, Adam! What are we waiting for? Let’s go get our little brother!”


	8. Eight

Gully Washer - Chapter Eight

The wheel is come full circle: I am here.  
Shakespeare, King Lear

Major Boyd Lathrop was an easy man. It didn’t take much to make him happy. A warm fire, a drop of whiskey, and the woman he loved by his side.

For fourteen long years he’d been denied them all.

Checking his horse that shifted nervously from foot to foot, Boyd waited until the animal had calmed down and then nudged it forward to the edge of the ridge. He was looking down on the land west of Nettie’s cabin. His men, dressed and painted like savages, were farther north conducting another raid, killing more settlers and stealing their goods.

He sure wished he coulda been there.

Boyd bit of a plug of tobacco and proceeded to chew. Just like before, he had it all planned out. His false Paiutes were raiding along the Truckee Road, killing and burning. They’d been ordered to take no captives. That did two things for him. The Paiutes had killed his own many long years before, so making theirs the target of the law was always a pleasure. The raids also masked his real purpose. When he took Nettie away no one would think anything of it or come after them, looking to find her. She would be just another victim of Indian savagery. He’d tried it years before and it hadn’t worked.

Come Hell or high water, it would this time. 

Boyd fished in his saddlebag and located his spy glass. He put it to his good eye and gazed down at the Manning homestead. A movement outside it took him unawares. He adjusted the focus so he could see better and was surprised to find a young man with curly brown hair exiting the house and heading to the west.

He was sure he’d killed that youngin’ of Nettie’s fourteen years before.

Returning the spy glass to his saddlebag Boyd nudged his horse with his knee and tugged on the reins, turning the bay so his nose was pointed down the hill. As the horse obeyed, he freed his army-issued pistol from the confines of its leather holster.

Wouldn’t do to leave his woman anything to cling on to.

 

Ben Cartwright emerged from the trees and urged his horse onto the road. He recognized the area. Antoinette Manning’s house lay, perhaps, a mile away. He stopped as memories flooded his inner eye – the killing of the Mannings and their kin, the Paiute chief, Returns to War, coming to his door and asking sanctuary for his men who were innocent of the crime. The hours he had spent in the old chief’s company listening to his tale and realizing an injustice had been perpetrated and there was nothing he could do to set it right. 

After it was all over he had come to Nettie to tell her the truth, but found her mind completely shattered. Over the years he had tried to help her, sending men to do her chores and aid her in preparations for winter, until she had begun to drive them off with a gun. In Nettie’s mind it would always be the fall of eighteen forty-five. Her husband and children were alive and always would be, even as she would always wait for the sound of their voices and their footsteps on the floor.

Footsteps that would never come. 

Ben drew a deep breath of the crisp clean air and nudged Buck forward. His horse whinnied as if sensing something he could not. He ignored it. The tracks of the wagon led back to the Manning homestead and, no matter what, he was going to knock on that door and enter that house and see whether or not his son was inside. On the trip through the trees he had remembered what Hoss told him, how Nettie Manning had thought Joe was her dead son who had also been named Joseph. If Little Joe had ended up at her place somehow, then she might think the same thing today and, if his youngest was injured or sick and unable to fight her, the poor woman might not let him go.

Pressing his right knee into Buck’s side, Ben urged the horse to the left and headed for the Manning house.

Once at the house, Ben Cartwright dismounted and tethered the Buckskin horse to the rail in front. He pushed his hat back and cast his eyes around, noting the run-down condition of the place. He had wanted to help, but there was little he could do once one of his ranch hands had come back with a bullet in his shoulder. A twinge of guilt made him wince. It had been at least four months since he had communicated with Nettie. It wasn’t the woman’s fault, but dealing with her was a hard thing to do. She could be sweet as a summer’s day one moment and turn and strike like a rattlesnake in the next. People had learned to give her a wide berth. He doubted she had seen anyone other than him and his men in years.

Ben noted how the wagon’s tracks halted just outside the house. Bending to the ground he saw markings that seemed to indicate someone had been dragged from the wagon into it. 

It could have been Joe.

Nervous and excited as a girl at her first cotillion, Ben approached the wooden door. Raising his hand he knocked on it hard. “Nettie! Nettie Manning! It’s Ben Cartwright. Let me in.” The silver-haired man waited, listening. “Nettie!”

At first he heard nothing. Then there was a kind of whimper, like the cry of a cornered animal. It carried in it a plea for help and a warning to keep away at one and the same time. Ben tried the door and was surprised when it swung in on its own. Nettie never left it unlocked. 

Never.

Moving into the room Ben noted first its disheveled state. There was a table halfway between the door and the back bedroom. It had been tipped over. A china tea cup and plate lay on the floor, smashed into a dozen pieces. The room was cold. The fire had gone out. There was no one home.

Wait. No. 

Yes, there was.

Ben held still. There it was again – the whimpering. Cocking his head, he listened and determined it was coming from behind the closed door to the back and right of where he stood. He thought that was Nettie’s bedroom. Crossing to it, he knocked on the door. 

“Nettie? Nettie, are you in there?”

The room fell silent. Then he heard her say. “Joey? Is that you?”

His heartbeat quickened. “No. It’s Ben Cartwright. Nettie, is Joey here?”

A groan answered him.

Ben hesitated, then he lifted the bar from the door and tentatively pushed it open. It moved about two feet and then stopped, blocked by something large laying on the floor. Squeezing through the opening he found it was Nettie Manning. She was cool to the touch as if she had lain there for some time. The eyes she lifted to look at him were devoid of sanity. 

“Joey is such a wicked boy,” she wailed. “He ran away. Why would Joey run away from me? Why?”

Ben bent down and took her by the shoulders. “Nettie. Nettie, look at me. Your Joey’s dead. He has been for a very long time.”

“No, no,” she moaned, covering her ears with her hands, “no! I will not hear it! He was here. Only a moment ago, he was here. Mon petite Joey was here!” 

Memory stabbed him. He supposed it was a part of the reason he had such a soft spot for Antoinette. Though she had not come from New Orleans, she was Creole like his late wife, Marie. Even her coloring was the same – blonde hair with dark brown eyes. 

Shifting tactics, Ben said, “Nettie, let me help. Do you know where Joey went? I’ll find him for you.”

“He ran away,” she cried. “I do not know where.”

“How long has he been gone?”

The blonde woman shook her head, but said nothing. It took a moment, but then he realized she had passed out from sheer exhaustion. Gently, Ben slipped his hands under the poor creature and lifted her up. He might as well have held a child. She could have weighed no more than a hundred pounds. With care he bore Nettie to the bed and laid her on it. As he did, he noted the bloodstains on the sheets and blankets and knew with certainty that his son had been there.

After he had Nettie settled, Ben returned to the stoop and looked out on the wild world that he loved so dearly and called his home. He had been so close. So close.   
Joe was out there – sick, wounded, maybe dying – and he had no idea how to find him.

But find him he would.

 

Joe stopped and leaned his head against the trunk of one of the thousand tall trees that dotted the land to the west of Nettie’s house. He closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to rest. It seemed he had given the old woman the slip. At least he had neither seen nor heard anyone coming up from the area of the house. Unless Missus Manning managed to open the bedroom door from the inside – which was unlikely – he was free.

Free.

As he stood there, weak as a newborn calf, breathing hard and feeling the fever in his blood, Joe’s mind fled the scene and returned to his pa and their home. He could see himself as a little boy sitting on his pa’s knee while Hop Sing bandaged yet another scrape, and could hear his pa telling him that he had to take more care, that if ‘something happens to you, Joseph, my world would end.’ He loved his pa, but even more than he was sure of that, he knew his pa loved him. 

That did it. The tears flowed.

That was another blessing in his life – tears. You couldn’t find a man more manly than his pa, or truth to tell, both his brothers. Adam was probably the most stoic and he couldn’t really remember seeing his elder brother cry, but never once did Adam make fun of him or call him names because he did.

Neither had Hoss or his pa.

Turning around, Joe braced his back on the tree. He looked up at the sky, trying to get his bearings. This deep in the trees the sun was a trickle of light, but he thought he could tell where it was shining. Home lay in the opposite direction. Home and his pa and brothers and everything he knew of safety and love.

Joe swayed. Catching himself with a hand against the tree, he waited for the moment to pass. He’d had several more coughing fits that had set his head to pounding and his chest felt like it was on fire. Passing the sleeve of his borrowed shirt over his forehead, he wiped away a sheen of sweat and then began to move again. His steps were unsteady, halting, and often misplaced. Every time he fell and had to pick himself up, he figured that was it – he’d never get up again. Joe’s left hand descended to the firearm he had tucked behind the waistband of his borrowed black trousers. He’d had to take the bullets out for fear that one of his falls would cause it to misfire. 

He sure as shooting didn’t want a ball of lead in his privates.

Joe tapped his pocket, making certain the bullets were there. He doubted very much that he would be able to load it in time if a need arose, but he’d do his best. The path back to the Ponderosa would be filled with all kinds of wild beasts.

And maybe wild men.

Glancing again at the sky, the sick man moved on with a whispered plea to the man upstairs to point him in the right direction. It had taken a good two hours to arrive at Gray Gulch and that was on horseback. Walking, even on a good day, it would have taken him at least twice that many hours and probably more. Weak as he was, it might take him half a day. 

The thought of it made his knees go weak.

As Joe swayed and nearly lost his balance, lurching over to one side, something whizzed over his head and struck the tree behind him. It took several seconds for the sound he knew as well as his own back hand to register.

Someone had taken a shot at him.

“Hey!” he yelled, dragging himself forward, “hey! Don’t shoot! Look,” he pulled the empty gun from behind his belt and dropped it at his feet, “I’m unarmed!”

The second shot caught the edge of his forehead and dropped him senseless to the ground.

 

Boyd Lathrop lowered his rifle and urged his mount forward to where the boy lay. He dismounted upon his arrival and walked over. For a second, he simply stared. Then he took his foot and shoved the corpse and turned it over.

Only it weren’t no corpse.

The boy moaned as his back struck the grass. Boyd knelt by him, looking. He remembered Nettie’s Joey. The boy had been an irritant. He recalled the small frame and curly brown hair, but there was something about the face that was unfamiliar.

Oh, well, a man could change mightily in the course of fourteen years.

Reaching out Boyd looked beneath the boy’s shirt, noting his injuries, and then felt his skin. Leaning in close, he heard the rattle deep in his chest. Obviously, Joey’d been wounded and was fevered. He must have gone plumb loco and stumbled out of the house, which would explain the erratic nature of his movements while he had him under observation. Boyd wiped the dried blood off by his hand by running it over his cavalry pants as he stood. He took the barrel of his rifle and poked the boy in several places. The action brought a moan, but no sign of consciousness. For a moment he thought about placing the barrel against the boy’s head and blowing his brains out, but he decided against it.

Weren’t no point in wasting good ammunition on an animal what was bound to die. 

 

Ben Cartwright had been in Nettie’s bedroom checking her condition when he heard a gunshot. Releasing his pistol from its holster, he palmed the weapon and headed for the door. Fortunately Nettie was still unconscious so he had no worry that she would follow. Stepping onto the stoop, Ben listened. There was one problem with all of those trees. A sound could bounce from one to the other forever. It made it hard to determine location if too much time had gone by. 

Still clutching the weapon, he stepped down and stood in the ankle-deep grass that fronted the Manning homestead, waiting, listening. Just as he decided to return to the house for his rifle before heading west to see if he could find whoever had fired the gun, another shot rang out. His stomach sank. 

He was betting it had something to do with Little Joe. 

Ben reconsidered the rifle, but decided his pistol would do. Making double-certain it was loaded, he set out to find his son. 

 

“You hear that, Adam?” With a firm hand on the leads, Hoss reined in Chubb. Beside him, his brother fought to control his own animal that had been spooked by the sudden sound. 

“Yes. A gunshot.”

They had ridden hard through the early morning hours and were almost at the Manning place. The little boy in him still hesitated to go there, afeared of old Missus Manning. But the man he was had control. 

“You think we should ride in hard and fast?” Hoss asked.

Adam hesitated. “Hard to know what is going on.”

The big man nodded. “Seems like someone’s in trouble.”

His elder brother fought a smile. He knew it was inappropriate. “Want to bet it has something to do with Joe?”

It was at that moment that a second shot rang out.

The two men looked at each other and then, without a word, put spurs to horseflesh and flew down the road.

 

“Joseph?” Ben Cartwright called out as he walked forward with his rifle at the ready. “Joseph, if you can hear me, answer me!”

He was headed west into the trees that butted up against the small clearing where Peter Manning had chosen to build his home. Along the way he had found the tracks of a barefoot man and a few remnants of bloody linen. 

“Joe! It’s your pa!”

When he failed to get a reply, the silver-haired man began to move forward again. He hadn’t traveled five minutes when he spotted something that didn’t belong. It was low on the ground near the base of a tree. Whatever it was, was black and white. Frowning Ben pressed on, his eyes locked on the aberration. 

It resolved itself into the crumpled form of a man with curly brown hair. 

“Joe!” he shouted and took a step forward. 

A bullet halted him in his tracks as it flew past, not ten inches from his nose.

“Hold it right there, Cartwright,” a gruff voice called out. A second later a lean form followed. Whoever it was, was dressed in a combination of army issue and frontier clothing. His blue pants had a military stripe down the side and Ben recognized the boots. The shirt was a patterned cotton one such as the Paiutes wore. The stranger wore a brown corduroy coat over the top. “Drop your rifle and raise them hands high.”

Ben did as ordered. “Let me go to my son. He’s sick.”

The man appeared. His rifle was pointed directly at him. “So that’s your Joe?”

“Yes.”

“He ain’t sick, Cartwright. He’s dead.”

His heart was racing. Could Joe have survived a near drowning only to die at this savage’s hands? No. He couldn’t believe that.   
Wouldn’t believe it.

“What have you done?” Ben demanded.

The man stepped between him and Joe and into a stream of light falling through an opening in the trees. “I remember you, “ he said. “Do you remember me?”

The silver-haired man looked at him. The stranger was of average height, tough and sinewy and about forty-five years of age. He couldn’t see the color of the man’s eyes, but they were pale and cold. The stranger’s face was heavily scarred, as though he had seen many a knife fight. His hair was a light brown or dark blond. He did look familiar. It took a moment, but then he had it.

What he ‘had’, he didn’t like much.

“Boyd Lathrop.”

The vile man tipped his hat. “At your service.” 

“What have you done to my boy?”

He shrugged. “He was sick anyway. I put him down.”

Ben couldn’t help himself. Anger drove him forward.

Boyd’s rifle, aimed at his belly, drove him back. 

“What are you going to do with me?” Ben demanded, not really caring but needing to know. Boyd might be lying. He had to stay alive – had to get to Joe.

“Kill you when I feel like it. Make you sweat ‘til I do.”

Ben drew a breath to snap off a reply, but failed to do so when he saw Joe stir. Relief flooded through him as his son rolled over. Fear followed quickly in its wake. Joe was lifting his head, staring at them. Reaching out.

It was imperative he keep Boyd from noticing. 

“You know this is all a waste, don’t you, Boyd?” Ben said. “You could have ridden in here and ridden off with Mrs. Manning and no one would have questioned you.”

“Right,” the villain snorted. “Boyd Lathrop, fresh from a prison break and wanted by the U.S. Army. I shoulda just waltzed in here and taken Nettie in the buggy to Virginia City for the marriage license. Don’t be stupid, Cartwright.”

“Was it that you were afraid of, or the fact that she might tell you she didn’t want to go like the last time?”

It was a charged statement. Ben hoped it would distract Lathrop. For some reason Joe was clawing his way through the grass, reaching for something. 

Lathrop’s pistol was out and under his chin in a second.

“You want to die now, old man? Just give me a reason.”

“It’s the truth, Boyd. You know it. After you killed her family and took Nettie, she did everything in her power to escape. I know because I helped her when she finally did. She told me she hated you.”

Joe was on his knees now. He had his hand out. In it was a pistol.

His son’s trembling hand couldn’t hold it still.

Ben drew a breath. If Joe took that shot Lathrop would drop his son before the boy knew what happened. As his gaze returned to the man who threatened Joe, Ben Cartwright did the only thing he could do. 

He balled up a fist and rammed it straight into Boyd Lathrop’s face.

As he did, two things happened. Joe’s gun went off, the bullet going wide and striking a tree. 

And the second?

Boyd stiffened. Surprise and then resignation flew across the villain’s face. Then he dropped where he was and lay still.

Ben headed for Joe, but halted at the sound of his middle son’s voice.

“Pa! Pa!” Hoss shouted as he flew out of the trees with his gun smoking. Adam was hard on his heels. When he arrived at his side, the big man asked, “Pa, are you shot?”

“No, no,” Ben said, breathing hard. Taking Hoss by the arm he told him, “Your brother Joe. He’s there, Hoss, under the tree.”

“Adam’s got him, Pa. You just rest easy. It’s all over now.”

 

Adam Cartwright dropped beside his little brother and checked first for a pulse. It was there but weak. Gently, he took hold of Joe’s shoulders and rolled him over. His brother’s body looked like a battlefield. There was a fresh gash on his forehead, put there just now he assumed by Boyd Lathrop. There were old wounds as well, at least one of which was bandaged. Joe’s skin was on fire and it looked like he had lost both bulk and weight. 

But he was alive!

The black-haired man glanced at his middle brother and father. They were bending over the man Hoss had shot, no doubt making certain he was dead. After a quick examination of Joe’s injuries, Adam came to the conclusion that it would be all right to move him. Slipping in under Joe, he lifted his brother and cradled him in his arms. 

As he did Joe stirred and his bright green eyes opened on a world of pain. A moan escaped him.

“Hush, Joe. I’ve got you.”

The boy turned his head and looked up without focus. “Pa?”

“No, Joe. It’s Adam.”

“Adam,” he sighed. “Hey...big brother.”

“Hey,” he replied, his voice choking.

Joe was silent a moment, then he reached up and touched his cheek. Even sick and next to dying, his little brother’s irrepressible spirit was evident. A slight smile lifted the corner of Joe’s upper lip.

“Why, big brother...you’re crying.”

Adam caught his hand. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

“I...ain’t never...seen you cry a –” The rest of the sentence was lost in a body-wrenching cough.

Adam pulled Joe close and waited until the storm had passed. When he released him, his brother had lapsed back into unconsciousness. The black-haired man placed a hand on Joe’s stubbled cheek even as his father and Hoss arrived and fell to their knees beside them. 

Adam looked up at the older man, the tears falling freely now.

“Pa. Joe’s home. He’s home at last.”


	9. Nine

Gully Washer - Chapter Nine 

All's well that ends well still: the fine's the crown;  
Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.  
Shakespeare, All’s Well That Ends Well

 

“Well, big brother, lookee there. If that don’t beat all.”

“I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised. He’s never pulled his weight around here – even considering how little he weighs.”

Joe Cartwright shifted and opened one eye. When he realized he was laying in a bed bundled up like a babe in arms and not walking the streets of New Orleans with a beautiful saloon girl on his arm, he decided waking up wasn’t worth it and snuggled deeper in sleep’s embrace. It seemed like it was only a second later when a hand on his shoulder shook him, softly at first and then with firmer intent.

“Joe. Joe!”

Both eyes opened this time – barely. “Um-hm?”

“Joe. Look at me.”

It was Adam speaking. He sounded stern as their pa. Joe turned his head into the pillow and asked with his lips pressed against it. “Why should I?”

“Just do it.” 

After a second Joe felt his brother’s hand gently cup his head and force it back. He couldn’t really see him. Adam was sort of a pink and black blob.

“Well? Joe, look at me.”

“I’m looking,” he growled. “What I see ain’t pretty.”

“He’s all right, Adam. Ornery as ever,” Hoss remarked. 

Adam gestured for the glass of water on the bedside table. Then he lifted him and put it to his lips.

Joe, unfortunately, had fallen asleep again. He woke with a sputter as the ice cold water spilled down the front of his nightshirt. “Hey!” he said with a little bit of his old fire. “Hey! You trying to drown me for real this time?”

“The doctor said to keep liquids in you,” Adam replied. “That’s what I’m doing.”

“Tryin’ to do,” Hoss corrected.

Joe didn’t have the energy, but he wanted to laugh as Adam favored Hoss with his best annoyed look. “The Doc also said to check once an hour and make sure we could wake you,” the black-haired man added.

“Ohhhh,” Joe whined. “No, he didn’t.”

“Yes, he did. The infection’s at bay and the fever’s down a bit, but there’s still a chance you could slip away.” Adam winced and corrected himself. “That you could slip back into unconsciousness.”

Joe glanced at Hoss whose face was scrunched up like he’d just sucked a lemon. Looking from one to the other, he decided something was definitely rotten in Denmark. 

“Am I gonna die?” he asked in a small voice.

“No, you ain’t, little brother,” the big man said as he moved to the other side of the bed. “Not if you take care of yourself.”

“Hand me the stethoscope, Hoss.”

Joe’s eyes grew wide as his brother placed one end of the strange-looking device in both his ears and then went for his chest with the other. The touch of the silver-tipped ebony cup on his skin made him jump.

“What’re you trying to do? Torture me?”

Adam pulled one plug out of his ear. He looked at Hoss. “You know this thing is wonderful? Couldn’t hear him at all.” As he turned back, his elder brother said in their father’s voice. “Now shut up, Joe. I need to listen.”

If not their father’s words.

Clamping his mouth shut, Joe pouted and lay still.

After a minute Adam lowered the instrument. “He’s still rattling badly.”

Hoss sighed. “It ain’t any better?”

“It? I’m a ‘he’, not an ‘it,” Joe protested weakly.

“What did I tell you Joe?” Adam pinned him with his hazel eyes.

“Shut up?”

His brother’s eyes widened and his brows shot up. “No speakee the English?”

The pout turned to a scowl, and then to a quizzical look. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Well, let’s see. I have a catalog left by Doctor Martin. ” Joe eyes followed Adam’s movement. His brother actually picked up a paper and began to read from it. “Near drowned. Two lacerations to the forehead. Fractured upper arm. Badly bruised inner thigh. Cuts and abrasions over all. Water in the lungs. Infection of the lungs and upper arm. Loss of weight. Elevated temperature.” Adam looked over the paper at him. “Shall I go on?”

Joe swallowed hard. “There’s more?”

“I believe all that is left is harebrained idiot.” 

“That shoulda been first,” Hoss chimed in.

Joe scowled. “You making fun of me?”

Adam put the paper down. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

Joe drew a breath, coughed, and then choked out, “If’n I wasn’t sick I’d poke that sour Yankee face of yours with this fist.” He tried to make one.

He failed.

“Boys, are you wearing your brother out?”

Joe’s eyes went to the open door in which his father stood. “Pa, I think I need rescuing.”

“I’m sure you do.” Ben Cartwright crossed to where Adam sat. Placing a hand on his eldest son’s shoulder, he asked, “You do everything the doctor said?”

“All but give Joe the remedy he left.”

His father nodded. “I’ll do that. You boys get back to work.”

“It just don’t seem right, Pa,” Hoss remarked as he rounded the bed. “A thousand head of cattle to drive and a dozen fences blown out by that flood to mend and little brother here takes a vacation.”

Adam had risen. The older man took his seat. Joe felt his father’s hand on his arm a moment later. “It’s well deserved,” his father said. “Now, you two, get moving!”

As they reached the door Adam stopped and turned back. “We’re glad you’re home, Joe. It just wasn’t the same without you.”

“Thanks, Adam.”

“It was too quiet for one,” his brother added with a grin.

If he’d had the strength he would have thrown a pillow at him.

Their father watched his other two boys leave and then turned back to him. “How are you today, son? You seem stronger.”

That notion in itself was frightening. “I feel weak as a kitten, Pa.”

“Well, there’s good reason for that.” 

Joe could hear the fear in his father’s tone. “What happened, Pa?”

The older man’s lips pursed in consternation. “We were hoping you could tell us.”

Joe settled back against the big feather pillow. He didn’t feel as sleepy, but he did feel content. “It’s all a jumble, Pa. I’m not sure what’s real.” He paused to cough. He heard it rattle deep in his chest but it wasn’t as painful as before. 

“You should rest, son.”

“I will. It’s just....” He hesitated. “What a man don’t know can make him, well, scared. You know what I mean?”

His father nodded. Sensing his need to speak, he said, “Go on.”

“I remember tracking Beauty. She was at the bottom of the gulch. The storm brewing scared her and she hurt me.” He looked at his father. “It wasn’t her fault.”

“No.”

“Pa, do you know what happened to her?”

His father hesitated and then said, “She wasn’t as lucky as you, Joe.”

Tears brimmed in his eyes. “She’s dead?”

His father nodded.

Another thought struck him, even more terrifying. “Cochise?”

“Cochise is fine, don’t you worry. He came back on his own.” Ben reached out and tucked the blanket beneath his son’s chin. “Now, you need to rest.”

“No, Pa.” He gripped his father’s sleeve. “I need to know what happened.”

The older man sighed. “Well, from as near as we can tell you and Beauty were at the bottom of the gulch when the gully washer hit. You must have found something to hang onto – maybe it was Beauty – to keep your head above water. Somewhere along the way you were separated. Beauty drowned.” His father reached out and ran his fingers over his son’s head. He finished by cupping his cheek. “You didn’t.”

“I remember catching hold of the tree roots. I twisted the cloth on my jacket around them as much as I could. I knew I was going to pass out.”

“That’s where Jude and Nabby found you, hanging from the roots,” Ben said as he straightened up. “You did a good job, Joe. That fast thinking probably saved your life.”

“Jude and Nabby?”

“You mean you were tended by a pretty girl and you don’t remember?” his father asked, a small smile twisting his lips.

“Girl? I don’t remember any girl.” Joe paused. He shivered. “But I do remember a woman....”

“That would be Antoinette Manning. You were in her house. Jude and his sister took you there to tend you. Nabby was taken by the Indians and her brother went to find her. You were alone with Nettie for about a day.”

“She kept saying she was my Maman.”

His father sucked in air. “Maman is French for mama, Joe. She thought you were her dead son.”

Joe yawned. “She thought that when I was really little too.”

“You and her Joey were very much the same. He had the same build and hair, though Joey’s face was longer and his eyes not quite so large.” He felt his father squeeze his hand. “There are some losses, Joe, that people can’t overcome.”

Joe’s eyelids were getting heavy. He blinked and forced them open. “What about you, Pa? Is there something you have to lose you couldn’t overcome?”

 

Ben Cartwright stood in front of the large open hearth that was one wall of their great room. Joe had fallen asleep immediately after asking his question. He struggled deep within himself for the answer.

What if things had not come out as they did?

What is his son had died?

Ben’s thoughts turned to Nettie Manning. Jude had seen to her upon his arrival at the Manning homestead, but had insisted her case was beyond his experience. He suggested he and Nabby return east with her to Philadelphia where the doctors at the Asylum for the Relief of Persons Deprived of the Use of Their Reason was. It was a private mental hospital run by Quakers. Jude had gone through a course there and thought their modern ideas might be able to restore Antoinette’s reason. Ben hoped for both Nettie and Nabby’s sake that Jude was right. Jude said they had not told the older woman yet about Nabby. They thought it best to wait until she might be able to understand.

Nabby and Jude were at Antoinette’s place, caring for her now. In a few weeks time they would head back east.

Ben drew in a lungful of air and let it out slowly. He raised his arms and then stretched them wide. None of them had slept more than two or three hours in a row since they had brought Joe home nearly a week before. The trip back had been arduous, though, thankfully, the roads had had time to dry out. Every time they hit a hole or rolled over a broken branch Joe would cry out. Or at least he had in the beginning. About the time they reached the end of the gulch and found a pass over it, his son had fallen silent.

Deathly silent.

By the time they got him to the ranch Joe’s fever had been perilously high and his son had been out of his head. Thankfully Doc Martin had taken his request seriously and was waiting for them when they arrived. The Doc had been in the area treating others who had minor injuries from the flood and had stopped to check in. It had been touch and go that first night, and the second too. On the third day Joe’s fever had broken and though he still had a bad cough rattling round deep in his chest, the doctor said he had every chance of making it. That was when he set them to round-the-clock checks to make certain that the fever didn’t come back and that Joseph didn't fall into a coma. Jude Cossington had tended Joe too those first few days, and then he and his sister Nabby had returned to the Indian camp to check on Returns to War’s youngest son before heading to Nettie’s.

The Indian chief’s son was going to make it too.

Ben frowned, trying to remember what had driven his wagon down that lane of thought. As he paused, there was a knock on the door. When he opened it he found Sheriff Coffee standing outside.

“Roy. Good to see you. Come in!”

“Thank you, Ben,” the lawman said as he stepped over the threshold. His eyes went to the staircase and the rooms above. “How’s little Joe? I heard he was hurt bad.”

Ben nodded. “He was. The Doc says he’s going to pull through.”

“That’s good to hear, Ben. Mighty good.”

“What brings you out to these parts, Roy?” Ben asked as he led the peace officer toward the pair of chairs butted up against the hearth. “Oh, forgive me. Would you like some coffee? I can call Hop Sing.”

“No need, Ben. I had some afore I came here.”

He gestured toward one of the chairs. “Sit down, Roy.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said as he took a seat. “I’ve been on the road a long time, Ben, what with thinking I was following Indians and then ending up in a shoot out with a group of lawless men pretending to be them. I had to take Lathrop’s surviving gang members to Virginia City to await trial for all that killing before coming out here.”

“The family they attacked recently?”

“Fared better than the Laceys. They all made it.”

Ben’s jaw tightened. “Boyd Lathrop told me he had killed Little Joe. He called my son an ‘animal’.”

“Lathrop’s the animal, Ben. Or he was. I heard it was one of your boys who took him out. That’s a great service to the settlers.”

“I tried to tell him it was all without purpose.”

“Ben, men like Lathrop, well, their only purpose is to take pleasure in other men’s pain. The world’s better without him.”

Ben snorted. “You won’t get any argument there.”

“I came too because I thought you would want to know that we’ve patched things up with the Paiutes under Returns to War. I gave them some extra blankets and the outlaws’ rifles. They seemed happy.”

“A gun is a mighty gift to a Paiute.”

Roy nodded. “Oh, I forgot to tell you. There was a price on Lathrop’s head. He broke out of prison just afore he came here. It’s five thousand dollars. You know which of your boys fired the killing shot?”

Ben pursed his lips. “I think I can speak for my boys, Roy, when I tell you they have no use for blood money.”

Roy’s gray eyebrows rose toward his hat. “Well, what am I supposed to do with it then?”

“Give it to Jude for Nettie’s care,” Ben heard his eldest son say. Turning, he saw Adam coming from the kitchen with a steaming cup in his hand. 

“I thought you were on your way to round up steers, son.”

Adam hefted the cup. “I was. Ran into Doc Martin about a mile down the road. He had new medicine for Joe. He said it was important to get it into him within the next couple of hours.”

“You know what it is?”

Adam sniffed it. “All I can tell you is it smells worse than that Bay Rum baby brother likes to wear.”

“Well, Ben, I had best get on my way. I’m glad to hear about Little Joe. Say,” he paused, “you think all of this might tame that third son of yours a bit?”

“Joe?” Ben laughed. “There isn’t a bronco buster born yet could break that boy’s spirit.”

“I suppose not.”

“Adam,” the silver-haired man said, “give me that cup. You ride along with Roy and get those steers rounded up.”

“The bottle’s in the kitchen. Hop Sing knows how to prepare it. The Doc said Joe needs it every two hours. It’s for the congestion. He’s supposed to breath in the steam and then drink it. Doc Martin said it will probably make him cough.” Adam winced. “I guess that’s the point.”

Ben nodded. “Thank you, Adam.”

“No problem, Pa.” His eldest son nodded to the sheriff. “Come on, Roy. Let’s get going.”

Ben Cartwright watched the two men leave the house and then he turned and went up the stairs. Quietly, he opened the door to his youngest son’s room and entered. Joe was sleeping. Crossing to the chair by the bed where they had traded shifts every few hours for the last five days, Ben parked himself. He placed the steaming cup on the table and leaned forward to wake his boy.

Something stopped him.

It was late in the day and the dying light spilled in the window with its curtains drawn back. The golden glow touched everything in the room, including his son, giving it a rosy hue. For a moment he could believe Joe was hale and hearty and simply asleep after a long hard day’s work.

But he knew better.

He knew he had come as close to losing this boy as he ever cared to come. For just a second the older man allowed the horror of that first find – of Joe’s black hat buried in the mud – to wash over him. Then he piled on it the boot and the gray jacket. He had been so certain Joe was dead. He had given up. Lost heart.

If the truth be known, he’d lost the will to go on.

And yet, here Joe was – alive! 

Ben glanced at the steaming mug. He really should wake him, but Joe looked so peaceful, so much like the little boy he had been not so long ago, that he hesitated to end the moment. Soon the business of the day would crowd in on him and he would forget. 

He would forget to remember to be thankful.

As a young man, he had sailed the seas, long before he thought of being a father and building a legacy for the sons he didn’t know he would have. One thing he had learned as a sailor was that nothing was in his control. When a storm swept in, it came without warning and within seconds every step, each heartbeat brought you a choice – another chance to make the right decision or get it wrong. A man had his own strength to rely on – there was nothing wrong with that – but there had to be something more. Something sure.

Something that couldn’t fail.

There had been a song the sailors sang when the darkness overtook them, broken only by white-hot streaks of light that split the sky and threatened to set the ship’s mast on fire. Ben leaned back. He could hear the men’s raised voices, pouring their hearts not only into the work that was its counterpoint, but out to their God.

Our life is like a stormy sea  
Swept by the gales of sin and grief,  
While on the windward and the lee  
Hang heavy clouds of unbelief;  
But o’er the deep a call we hear,  
Like harbor bell’s inviting voice;  
It tells the lost that hope is near,  
And bids the trembling soul rejoice.

Ben was still sitting there, thinking, when his son stirred and opened his eyes. 

“Pa?”

“Yes, Joseph?”

At the sound of his voice Joe snuggled down farther in his covers. His voice was dreamy. “Nothing, Pa. Just making sure you’re there.”

He took hold of his son’s hand. “I’m here, Joe. I always will be.”

A light smile floated across the boy’s lips. “I know, Pa.”

Ben watched Joe return to sleep and then rose from his chair. Doc Martin would scold him, but he didn’t have the heart to wake him. They’d give him the medicine in an hour or so. Leaning over his child, the silver-haired man pressed his lips to his youngest’s curly brown head. Then he walked over to the window and looked out on the dawning day.

“Thanks. Thanks for everything,” he said. 

After a minute Ben returned to the chair and remained there, keeping watch until the light was up.


End file.
